


Ficmas 2018

by Bellelaide



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: 25 Days of Christmas, M/M, Multi, christmas fics, prompt fills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-05 01:36:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 62,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16801087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellelaide/pseuds/Bellelaide
Summary: 25 England National Team Christmas themed ficlets for the countdown to Christmas.Happy holidays!1.Jesse Lingard & Marcus Rashford2.Jordan Pickford and John Stones3.Eric Dier & Dele4.Jesse Lingard & Marcus Rashford5.Jordan Pickford and John Stones6.Harry Kane & Gareth Southgate7.Eric Dier & Dele8.Jordan Pickford & John Stones9.Reader X Jesse Lingard10.Jordan Pickford & John Stones11.Eric Dier & Dele12.Trent Alexander Arnold & Ruben Loftus Cheek13.John Stones & Jordan Pickford14.Eric Dier & Dele15.Jesse Lingard & Marcus Rashford16.Harry Kane & Gareth Southgate17.John Stones & Kyle Walker18.Jesse Lingard & Marcus Rashford19.Adam Lallana & Jordan Henderson20.Reader X John Stones21.Jordan Pickford & John Stones22.Eric Dier & Dele23.Trent Alexander Arnold & Jordan Henderson24.Jordan Pickford & John Stones25.An England NT Christmas Day





	1. 1. Jesse Lingard & Marcus Rashford

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to ficmas 2018! 
> 
> Today's song is Last Christmas by Wham! I hope you're all feeling festive xxx

“You can’t put red and blue baubles on the tree at the same time, Jess!” Marcus cried exasperatedly. “You’re ruining the whole thing!” 

Jesse peered out from behind the tree - 10 foot, real, he’d insisted it be real - and scowled at Marcus. “Why not? It’s supposed to be colourful!” 

“You have to pick one colour! One theme! Red and blue’s an eyesore!” 

“You’re an eyesore,” Jesse snapped, continuing with his task. “Why did you let me buy both colours if they couldn’t both go on the tree?” 

Marcus rolled his eyes from his spot on the carpet surrounded by tinsel. He was attempting to untangle fairy lights - he’d told Jesse the lights had to go on the tree before the baubles, but Jesse wouldn’t listen - and was getting nowhere with it, his nails too short to get purchase on the wires. 

“I let you buy both because you wouldn’t have listened if I told you to pick one. Red and blue doesn’t match. It should be red and silver or red and green - “ 

“Who cares if it matches? Who’s going to see it?” 

“I’m going to see it! And you’ve clumped them all in one section, they aren’t spread out - “ 

“Oh my god, will you leave me alone? Would you stop - “ 

“Stop fucking up the tree!” 

“You’re pissing me off!” Jesse shouted, coming out and standing in front of Marcus. He was trying to look menacing but it was hard to be threatening wearing a pair of Marcus’s shorts and a Christmas jumper that lit up when you touched it. “Everything I do is wrong.” 

Marcus looked up at him and frowned, not wanting to back down. “No, I’m not saying that, but you’re not taking my advice - “ 

“Alright, alright, how about you decorate the hall and the dining room and I’ll do in here? We’ll see who’s looks best.” 

Marcus sighed. “C’mon, we don’t have to do that. We’ll just - “ 

“No, Mr Perfect, go on. I’ll do in here, we’ll see who’s is best!” 

“Mr Perfect? Fine, Jess. Whatever.” Marcus threw the lights down and marched over to the pile of decorations on the couch, gathering up the ones designated for the hall and dining room. “We’ll soon see.” He stormed out the door with his arms full of shiny decorations and slammed it closed behind himself, exhaling through his mouth. 

He dumped the decorations on the stairs and looked around at the hall, deciding where to place things for maximum effect. His mum was a complete perfectionist when it came to Christmas decorations, and he’d grown up watching her deck the house out meticulously, measuring out the perfect spot for the wreath, choosing a colour scheme months in advance. 

He was excited to decorate for the first time by himself, excited to show his mum what he’d learned from her. Jesse was ruining it though, making the house look like Christmas had thrown up in it. He had been getting a headache just looking at the haphazard tree, at the mismatched colours - they should’ve gone with a fake tree, he’d argued. Neither of them wanted to clean up the fallen pines and a real tree required a lot of maintenance. Jesse was stubborn however, and was refusing to take Marcus’s wishes into consideration, adamant he knew best. Marcus shook his head and took a deep breath. He’d explain to his mum that Jesse had decorated the living room himself and Marcus had nothing to do with it. She’d understand. 

Marcus separated the tinsel out by colour and length, deciding the silver would look best in the dining room and gold for the hall. Next he took the wreath and unfolded its branches carefully, then sorted the ornaments into dining room vs hall piles. 

He went to the kitchen and grabbed tape and some tacks. On his way past the living room he heard an almighty crash and he paused outside the door, hand over the handle. There was silence and then the distinct sound of Jesse hissing “FUCK off, fucking piece of shit,” and Marcus kept moving past the door. 

He started with the wreath, tacking it on the front door perfectly in the middle, checking four times that it was aligned and neither too far to the left nor right. That done he came back inside, rubbing the cold from his hands. He taped tinsel around the mirror in the hall and placed their new winter scene snow globe next to the landline phone (BT had insisted they have it fitted with their wifi, but they never used it.) He placed a Glade hazelnut candle opposite it and lit it with a match from the kitchen, stomach rumbling at the sudden scent of chocolate. 

Next he wrapped tinsel up the stair railings, taking time to ensure there were equal spaces between each loop. He stuck fairy lights around the window next to the door and taped the wires down to the skirting so they weren’t in the way. They’d bought hanging snow flakes and he tacked them to the ceiling, standing on a chair from the dining room. They hung down in perfect intervals like a winter wonderland, leading guests into the house as if it was an upside down pathway. 

He could hear lots of banging and grumbling from the living room on his way into the dining room. He was sad, suddenly, that they were doing this apart when they should’ve been doing it together. He considered going into the room and apologising, letting Jesse decorate how he wanted and just going behind him and fixing it, but he didn’t feel like backing down on the challenge so he set about decorating the dining room stoically.

They had bought a full set to dress the table - a long silver cloth to run down the centre of the dark wood, glittery silver candle holders, a big centre piece that said Noel in red and green letters. He tied tinsel to the fancy chandelier Jesse had insisted on buying and then thought better of it and took it down, putting it around the cabinet with the dishes in it instead. He took out the crackers and put them on plates around the table, ready for Christmas dinner even though it was only December first. 

He went back to the front door and did a walk through, checking his work. He remembered there was spray snow in the kitchen and he sprayed it on all the windows, taking his time like a real artist. When he was satisfied he went to the living room door and knocked twice. 

“Jesse? You done yet?” 

“No!” Came Jesse’s voice, slightly muffled. “Ten minutes!” 

Marcus sighed and took out the hoover, going over the carpet in the hall and taking it half way up the stairs before he got bored. He went to the kitchen and pulled out the Bailey’s, pouring a couple of glasses over ice. He hopped up on the counter and took a sip of his drink, enjoying the warmth in his stomach as it slid down through his chest. He was scrolling through Instagram when he heard the living room door opening and Jesse groaning in the hall. Marcus put his phone down and crossed his ankles, waiting for Jesse to find him. 

“Beans?” Jesse called, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a grumpy face. “Why does it look like fuckin Harrods out there?” 

Marcus held out the Baileys. Jesse approached and took it, and Marcus picked a bit of tinsel out of his hair. Jesse took a gulp and sighed. 

“Yours looks amazing,” he grumbled. “Looks well professional. Mine looks like we got them from Home Bargains.” 

“We did get them from Home Bargains.” 

“Shut up,” Jesse replied, already on his way out of the kitchen. “Don’t be a dick about it.” 

“I’m sure yours are fine!” Marcus called at his back, hopping down from the counter. “Let’s see it.” 

He followed Jesse into the living room and froze in the doorway. He didn’t know where to start, there was so much going on. There was tinsel wrapped around the TV, obscuring half of it, and hanging from the light fixtures. Jesse had stuck their stockings to the fireplace with sellotape and they were wonky, Marcus’s own hanging on by a thread. Jesse had put the toy Santa on the windowsill but it didn’t fully fit, and their advent calendars were stacked up in front of the playstation, rendering it unusable. The tree was the real star of the show, an explosion of colour and decorations - Jesse had thrown everything on it, sparing nothing, and the poor thing was buckling under the weight. The lights were the only thing not present - they were in a pile in the corner - and the star was half way up the tree rather than on top of it, clinging to a branch. 

Marcus put his hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter and Jesse whined, falling down heavily onto the couch. “Fuck sake! Don’t be a dick I said!” 

“No, Jess, it’s fine, really - it’s just - why’s the star not on top of the tree?” 

“Couldn’t reach it,” grumbled Jesse, pouting at the TV. “Lights wouldn’t go on it with the baubles there either and you were rushing me.” 

Marcus opened his mouth to argue and closed it again, looking at the room with softer eyes. “Look, it’s fine - just needs a couple of fixes,” he said, putting his drink on the coffee table and going to the tree. He plucked off the star and fitted it to the top branch with ease, Jesse watching him out the corner of his eye. 

“Freak of nature,” he muttered, and Marcus snorted. 

“It looks great, alright. It’s really Christmassy.” 

Jesse tipped his head back exasperatedly. “It’s shit and I know it. It’s just - I was never allowed to do the decorations at home, never. And they were always shit man, always boring. I just wanted it to look fun, and I wanted to say I did it all by myself,” he said in a rush, eyes on the ceiling. 

Marcus took a few steps to the couch and sat down, pulling Jesse into his lap. Normally Jesse would protest - he hated being manhandled - but he went easy enough, softened by the Christmas spirit. “I get it. I’m sorry, for being a dick about the tree. We should put red and blue on it, it’s fun.” 

Jesse grumbled something into Marcus’s chest, and he thought it sounded like “I already know it’s fun,” but he wasn’t sure. 

“My mum was always ocd about the decorations so I think I get it from her. I need to learn to ease up a bit. I wanted it to be perfect but if I’m not putting them up with you then it’s not perfect at all, really.” 

Jesse knocked his forehead against Marcus’s collar bone and said “Will you help me fix it all?” 

Marcus put his fingers on the back of Jesse’s neck and squeezed, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Will you help me with the ones in the hall? It looks too bland. Needs some magic.” 

Marcus could feel Jesse smiling against his skin, and it made his heart flutter. “Right then, c’mon,” Jesse said, getting up. “Love Actually’s on ITV2 at 9.” 

Together they undressed the tree and put the lights on, then the tinsel, then Jesse’s crazy baubles were placed back on in a more aesthetic way. Marcus removed the tinsel from the ceiling lights - a fire hazard, honestly - and put them around the legs of the coffee table. He told Jesse to get the tacks from the hall and put the stockings up with them, and whilst he did that Marcus moved the advent calendars to sit on the fireplace. He rearranged the tinsel on the TV and put the toy Santa on the coffee table instead. 

They didn’t change Marcus’s decorations in the end. They were too busy drinking Baileys and sniggering into each other’s mouths as they kissed, Jesse singing a really really bad version of Last Christmas that made Marcus’s toes curl. At nine they cuddled up on the sofa and watched Love Actually. Jesse knew all the lines by heart and quoted along with the film, which amused Marcus. 

When it was over Jesse pretended to be asleep and Marcus carried him up to bed, holding him close to his body as he climbed the stairs. 

“Love you,” Marcus whispered as he pulled the covers up around Jesse. “And your crazy decorations.” 

“Happy Christmas, Beans,” Jesse murmured, turning over and pushing his face into the pillow. 

Marcus watched him for a moment, peaceful. Then he went to turn the lights off and lock the door, happier than he ever remembered being.


	2. 2. Jordan Pickford & John Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is BDE universe John and Jordan, but you don’t need to have read that for this to make sense. 
> 
> Today’s song is Snowfall by Ingrid Michaelson!

John hated snow. 

He hated it. It was cold, wet and unnecessary. It halted traffic and made the shops shut early. People raided Tesco for bread and milk like it was an apocalypse, and that irritated John. Snow was ugly when it turned to black, dirty looking ice. John wasn’t the steadiest person in the world and he always fell over when it snowed. He hated it when his fingers and toes went numb. He hated being wet and soggy and cold. 

Jordan, on the other hand, loved snow. 

He loved the way it looked when it fell from the sky. He loved the sight of fresh, fluffy, thick snow, how inviting it was. Jordan lived for the stillness in the air after a heavy fall, the roads silent because everyone was home with their loved ones. He adored getting cold and wet and coming inside and drying off in comfy, soft clothes, a cup of tea on his lap, footie on the TV. Snow made him feel Christmassy and whole, warm and cosy. He was one of those people who claimed to be able to feel it in their knees days before it was due to snow. Whenever he looked out the window and saw flakes begin to drop, he squealed like a little boy. He absolutely lived and died for snow. 

— 

The first snowfall of the year, John woke up to Jordan jumping on the bed on his knees, chanting something in a thick accent. 

John cracked an eye and frowned up at Jordan, irritated. “What?” He mumbled, pulling the duvet around his shoulders. It was sharply chilly, he noted. He wasn’t a fan of it. 

“Snow! It snowed! I was right!” Jordan was saying, tugging at the duvet. “Said it would snow, and it has!” 

John groaned and pulled the covers over his head. “What bloody time is it?” He whined, curling up into a ball. “This is my fucking day off!” 

“Dunno, like eight. It snowed, John! Let’s go sledding!” 

“Not going outside. Sorry. No way,” John huffed. 

“Aw, c’mon.” 

“Cuddle us,” he mumped, sliding a hand out of the sheets and feeling around for Jordan’s legs. 

Jordan came into John’s nest, thrumming with excitement. He ducked under the covers and threw a thigh over John’s hip, putting an arm over him and resting his fingers on the small of John’s back. John stuck his face into Jordan’s armpit, exhaling happily. He could definitely fall asleep again, he thought. This was nice, cosy, warm... 

“Snow is falling.” 

John cracked an eye open. 

“All around us.” 

John opened both eyes. 

“Children playing.” 

John held his breath. 

“Haaaaaving fu-“ 

“JORDAN!” John cried frustratedly. “I’m trying to sleep!” 

“But it’s snowing! C’mon, John, please,” Jordan begged, sitting up and throwing the covers off them both. 

“Get out my fucking bed,” John said. “Get out of my bed now.” 

Jordan did get up, to John’s surprise, mumbling something under his breath. John tugged the duvet back up and stretched out, chasing sleep. He could hear Jordan pulling on clothes but then it was silent, and John was so warm and soft, mind falling over the edge of consciousness easily. 

He was drifting between dreams, between awake and asleep, the smell of Jordan still lingering in the sheets soothing him into peacefulness, when he faintly registered the bedroom door opening again. He stretched out his toes like a cat, waiting for the dip of the mattress and Jordan’s warmth under the duvet. 

What he did not anticipate was that Jordan would shout “I NOMINATE THE GRINCH!” at the top of his lungs and rip back the covers, pelting a snow ball right at John’s back. 

Jordan was laughing like a hyena. John lay in bed, unmoving, icy water trickling down his sides as the snowball on his back melted. His eyes were wide open and his mouth was ajar, his brain firmly in shock. He couldn’t believe that Jordan had just done that - he could not comprehend, for a second, that Jordan had just done that. 

Slowly, carefully, John sat up. The snowball slid off his back and onto the bed, where it continued to melt in the heat John’s body left behind. John looked at Jordan slowly, aware that he had never, in his life, been so angry at him. 

“You -“ John gasped, words failing him. 

Jordan was still chuckling at the end of the bed. He was dressed in joggers and John’s good Gucci cashmere jumper that he hadn’t even worn yet. 

“I fucking - no, stop laughing,” he said, his voice firm. He was telling himself not to shout, not to explode, but he knew his face was read. His hands were shaking. “I am so fucking angry at you, Jordan. I’m barely keeping a lid on it right now,” he said, his teeth chattering a bit. “I am actually going blind with rage right now.” 

“Fucking loosen up, Johnny,” Jordan said, smirking. “Just a bit of water.” 

John bit his cheek so hard he tasted blood. Jordan would smash him in a fight but John was suddenly overcome with the desire to strangle him, to take him outside and smother him in snow and never let him back into the house.

“You. Went. Too. Far.” John hissed. “AND TAKE OFF MY NEW BASTARDING JUMPER, JORDAN, OR I SWEAR TO FUCK -“ 

“Thought you were blind with rage? How can you see what I’m wearing?” 

John lunged for Jordan then, springing like a wild animal. He vaulted over the end of the bed and slammed into the wall as Jordan moved, dodging John’s outstretched hands and zipping to the door. 

“C’mon then Stonesy!” Jordan said, eyes menacing. “Let’s have it!” 

John ran at Jordan again, absolutely crackling with rage. He let a noise out of his throat like some kind of maimed sea lion and chased Jordan down the stairs, wearing only his underwear. 

Jordan was quick, but John was quicker, and he leapt on Jordan’s back agilely, tackling him to the ground. John grabbed Jordan’s wrist and bent his arm behind his back, stilling his fussing under John’s legs. “LITTLE TWAT!” John shouted, knowing he was squeezing Jordan’s skin hard enough to mark him. “FUCKING PRICK!” 

Jordan was half laughing and half groaning under John, his face pressed into the carpet. “Get fucking off us!” He said into the floor, voice muffled. “Penalty!” 

At that, John regretfully released him, dropping his arm with a shove. He stood up and moved a few steps away, not trusting himself to be anywhere near Jordan and not go for him. “You can’t fucking safe word just because I’m angry at you,” John snarled, hands on his hips. 

Jordan was sitting up now, massaging his forearm. He looked up at John in annoyance and shook his head disapprovingly. “Break my arm and you’re in big fucking trouble,” he said calmly. “Big fucking trouble.” 

“Ruin my jumper and you’re in bigger trouble,” John said through his teeth. 

Jordan stood up and pulled John’s jumper off one handed, throwing it at him in a ball. John was shaking it out when Jordan walked up and shoved him in the shoulder, hard. John staggered back a bit and looked at Jordan with blazing eyes, unable to breathe properly. 

“Lighten up,” Jordan said before turning and walking into the living room. 

John stood there in disbelief. Then, before he could think better of it, he dropped his jumper on the stairs and followed Jordan, where he was looking out of the living room window at the snow. John put both of his hands out and pushed him in the shoulder blades, hard enough to make him fall forward onto the cold double glazing. 

The rest happened fast. Jordan grabbed John and John grabbed Jordan and they were swinging each other around the living room, grunting and cursing, aiming half hearted punches at each other’s arms and ribs. Jordan tugged John’s hair and John kicked Jordan in the thigh and they fell into the Christmas tree, the whole thing collapsing to the ground. Baubles were being crushed underneath them but they didn’t stop, wrestling bitterly and angrily. It didn’t take long for Jordan to get the better of John and he pinned him to the floor, straddling his waist and holding his arms down. John kicked but it was futile, and he looked up at Jordan with a scowl. 

“Say fucking sorry, you little dobber,” Jordan said. “Can’t believe you.” 

“Sorry for what?!” John said, and it was tricky to speak with the weight of Jordan on him. “You put a snowball on me in bed!” 

“It was a joke! Bit of water! I was so excited this morning and you ruined it! And now - “ Jordan paused, pressing his arse down experimentally. His features changed and he looked at John with a raised brow. “Are you hard?” 

John closed his eyes and Jordan could see that he was trying not to laugh. “Pinning me down like that,” John mumbled, and Jordan pressed his lips into his mouth to stop himself from laughing. 

“Say sorry and I’ll make you come,” Jordan said, lifting up onto his knees so John had no friction. 

John opened his eyes and looked up at Jordan with red cheeks. “That’s not fair,” he said, but his protest was weak at best. 

“Say it,” Jordan said again, squeezing John’s wrists harder. “Saaaaay it.” 

“Sorry you’re a little dick,” John said, and Jordan tutted. 

“Say it properly.” 

“Suck my dick,” John said. 

Jordan tweaked his nipple for that and John yelped, shouting “Fine, fine! I’m sorry!” 

“You have to fix the tree, too.” 

“Jordan...” 

“Say it.” 

“I’ll fix the fucking tree,” John said. “C’mon.” 

Jordan sank down then and moved against John’s erection. He positioned himself so that he was getting friction too and they ground against each other hungrily. There were red marks over Jordan’s shoulders where John had clawed at him and John wanted to kiss them. He came first, shuddering into his boxers. Jordan let go of his arms and John pulled himself up, hand going into Jordan’s trousers to finish him off. He pressed his lips to the marks on Jordan’s skin and his toes tingled when Jordan came all over his hand. 

Then they lay there, beside their fallen Christmas tree, listening to each other breathing. Eventually Jordan said “Sorry for the snowball. That was a shit thing to do.” 

John turned his head and looked at Jordan. “Sorry I wasn’t excited. Fucking hate the snow, though, Jord.” 

Jordan sat up and scratched his neck. “Come outside, we’ll have fun. I swear. Let me show you.” 

John sat up too and sighed. He wanted to say no, but he knew he’d pushed it this morning as it was. “Alright. Fine,” he breathed, getting up and holding out a hand to Jordan. 

— 

John was wrapped up like a piece of glass in twenty layers, Jordan not, and they ventured outside hand in hand. At first John was cold and irritated but there was something about watching Jordan, rolling balls of snow to make a snowman, eyes alight with happiness, that made John warm up inside. 

Before he knew it he was helping out, making snow angels and chasing Jordan with handfuls of snow. His hands were icy cold even in his gloves and his nose was numb but he found he wasn’t really thinking about that when Jordan was there in front of him with red, red cheeks and a big goofy grin and snow flakes on his eyelashes. 

At one point Jordan went still and grabbed John, shushing him. “Listen,” he whispered, and John did. 

“I don’t hear anything?” He said quietly, and Jordan beamed at him. 

“Exactly.” 

John kissed him on the mouth because he could. And then he stuffed a handful of snow down Jordan’s collar. 

— 

They got inside and took a shower together, the water close to scalding. They kissed for ages, mouthing the warmth back into each other’s extremities. 

They got out and fixed the tree - together, John wasn’t letting Jordan get away with that no matter what he’d said earlier - and then they ate tomato soup in bed whilst watching the Christmas episode of Gavin and Stacy on John’s laptop. They fell asleep for an hour, tucked up together like pieces of a puzzle. 

John and Jordan woke up and laid in bed for ages, chatting and laughing and scrolling on their phones. Eventually they had to move, and Jordan brought the dishes downstairs whilst John turned the lights on in the living room. They collapsed down on the sofa and spent the rest of their lazy day watching Christmas movies and drinking tea, tangled up so it wasn’t clear when one of them ended and the other began. 

In bed that night John held Jordan’s face and apologised for their fight that morning. Jordan kissed apologies into John’s mouth and neck and collar bones and he fell asleep like that, his head on John’s chest, saliva leaking from his lips. 

John looked down at him and reflected on how much he loved him. He loved everything about him to a scary degree. He loved him in a way that choked him with the intensity of it. This was someone’s baby, a whole human being, and he chose to spend his time with John, loving him and supporting him and growing with him. 

Carefully John extracted himself from under Jordan, placing his head down on the pillow delicately, gently. He tucked the covers up around Jordan’s shoulders and crept from the bedroom, holding his breath. John slipped into the hall and down the stairs, avoiding the ones he knew squeaked. He went to the front door and opened it quietly, turning the lock slowly. Next, he bent down and scooped up a fistful of snow, a great big icy wad of it. 

He closed the door behind him, took the snow, and tiptoed back up the stairs, where his baby was sound asleep - for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow is Eric Dier, Dele, and a puppy for Christmas - that one of them ardently refuses to get.


	3. 3. Eric Dier & Dele

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I Want For Christmas - Mariah Carey

Christmas markets were Eric’s favourite part of the holiday season. 

There was something so unbelievably magical about wandering around the little wooden huts, drinking warm mulled wine and eating sickening Nutella crepes. He loved ice skating and riding the big wheel. He adored being tucked up in big scarves and soft gloves, and there was nothing like watching the looks on the faces of little kids as they took in the sights and smells of Christmas around them. 

Dele had wanted to forgo the market this year. He’d said it was going to be a media scrum if the pair of them went together; that they’d be mobbed for photos and autographs and all sorts. Eric had begged and begged and even started crying at one point (there were no actual tears, but he certainly made the noise) and Dele reluctantly agreed, pulling his hat down low over his brow and his scarf up high to his nose. 

Much to Dele’s chagrin, no one looked twice at them. He was mumpy at first, complaining that it was cold and this was silly, but he soon warmed up when he saw how happy Eric was. They shared a bag of chocolate dipped strawberries and Eric had a mulled wine whilst Dele a hot toddie. The whole thing turned out to be quite lovely, actually, and Dele even agreed to go skating, hanging onto Eric the whole way round the rink even though he was a pretty decent skater. 

They got off the ice after an hour, breathless and flushed and happy. They got their shoes back on and Dele was straightening Eric’s scarf, their faces very close, when something behind Dele seized Eric’s attention. Dele turned around, following Eric’s gaze, and sighed. 

There, behind them, was a Labrador puppy. It was a chocolate one, with big green eyes, and it was chewing at its own lead happily. Eric was gone, rushing over to the the dog and dropping to his knees with an outstretched hand for it to smell, cooing like a broody mother. 

“He’s gorgeous - what’s his name?” Eric asked the owners, a man and woman in their thirties; give or take. 

“She’s a she,” the man said. “Her name’s Rosie.” 

“Oh she’s gorgeous, really - how old is she?” 

“Three months,” the guy said, smiling. “Are you a dog person?” 

Eric was all but kissing the dog at this point, rolling around with it in his arms, and he looked up with a huge grin and said “yeah, love em.” 

Dele walked over with his hands in his pockets and smiled politely at the couple. “C’mon, Diet,” he said quietly, nudging Eric with his foot. “Leave the people to their evening.” 

The owner of the dog looked at Dele and then at Eric and his eyes lit up, and Dele internally groaned. “Oh my god - don’t you two play for England? Dele Alli and - don’t tell me, don’t tell me - Jordan Pickford?!” 

Dele snorted a laugh and tried to cover it with his hand. Eric chuckled politely and got to his feet, the dog still biting at his ankles. “No, I’m not - I’m Eric Dier. We play for Spurs, too?” 

“Oh god, sorry - “ 

“Oh Dave - “ sighed the wife. 

“I’m honestly not big on footie, but the World Cup - could I be cheeky and ask for a photo? My father in law is going to die.”

“Of course, of course,” Eric said, standing beside Dele whilst Dave passed his phone to his wife. They smiled and posed, then said goodbye; merry Christmas. Eric gave Rosie a special pet on the head and said goodbye to her whilst Dele pulled him away by the elbow. 

“Told you we’d be recognised!” Dele squawked. “Told you!” 

“Stop. It was one person.” 

“I knew it! I knew it!” Dele rambled, setting off into a speech about privacy and boundaries that Eric wasn’t really listening to. He was quiet all the way home, firmly in his own head. 

Dele didn’t notice, content to yap to his heart’s content, and it wasn’t until they got home and settled on the sofa that Eric spoke. 

“That little dog... I want a puppy, Del.” 

Dele was digging through a box of Quality Street looking for an orange one, and he didn’t look up. “You’ve got two dogs.” 

“I want another one.” 

“Funny. Why are there no orange ones left? Did you eat them?” 

“I don’t even like the orange ones. I’m serious. I think we should get a puppy for Christmas.” 

Dele looked up then and paused, suddenly serious. Eric waited with baited breath. 

“What do you mean you don’t like the orange ones?” 

“Dele!” 

“Alright, alright - a puppy? No, Eric, c’mon. It’s hard enough with Cisco and Clay, every time we go away it kills you - “ 

“Yeah but - with another one they’d be less lonely, wouldn’t they? A little sister for them?” 

Dele rolled his eyes. “No. It’s not sensible. You can’t go buying dogs for Christmas. They’re for life, you know.” 

Eric opened his mouth to argue and closed it again, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. Dele put the chocolates on the carpet and came closer, sliding into Eric’s space. He nudged at his shoulder with his forehead, and Eric sighed and pulled him into his lap, kissing the taste of quality street out of his mouth. 

— 

A couple of days later they were in Waitrose together shopping for food and other household items. Dog food was last on the list and Eric huffed the bag onto the bottom of the trolley whilst Dele did nothing. 

When he got up the puppy food caught his eye, and Eric’s heart skipped a beat. 

“Del,” he said, nodding at the food. “Look.” 

“No.” Dele said firmly, turning around with the trolley and heading out of the aisle. 

Eric looked forlornly at the little dog on the packaging, and then he followed after his man.   
— 

Eric sent Dele twenty pictures of Labrador puppies the following day. Dele replied saying ‘new phone, who dis?’ 

— 

For their Friday night movie that weekend, Eric insisted on surprising Dele. He set up the blanket fort and bought copious amounts of munchies, even going through a new box of quality street and separating all the orange ones for Dele. 

Dele kissed him deeply when he saw them, his hands on either side of Eric’s neck. He kept on pressing his hips into Eric’s, which normally wouldn’t have been an issue, but Eric was on a particular mission and couldn’t get distracted. 

“Not now,” he murmured into Dele’s lips, a hand on his chest. “Wanna watch the movie.” 

Dele looked at him a bit strangely but acquiesced, lying down with his head on Eric’s stomach and sighing. Eric picked up the remote and started the movie. It took Dele four seconds to realise what it was, and he looked up at Eric with an irritated air. 

“Really, Dier? ‘The Search For Santa Paws’?” 

Dele refused to watch the movie, and he also refused to have sex after that. It was a lose - lose situation. 

— 

Eric found a breeder offering chocolate labs for sale before Christmas the next day. Dele was still in bed when Eric came to show him, jumping onto the mattress and causing Dele to bounce up and down. 

“I want you to pet me, daddy,” Eric said to Dele’s back in a high voice. 

Dele rolled over with a grin, his bottom lip between his teeth, but then rolled over again when he saw Eric’s phone turned towards him with a photo of a puppy on the screen. 

“Please bring me home for Christmas, daddy,” Eric said again, trying not to laugh. “I can’t wait to meet my new family.” 

“Bore off, Eric,” Dele mumbled. “Not interested.” 

— 

At their last Spurs training session of the year, Eric pulled Harry to the side and begged him to help convince Dele on the dog. 

Harry, being Harry, was unsure. “I don’t want to get involved,” he said carefully. “Del might be annoyed if I - “ 

“Oh come off it,” Eric said, narrowing his eyes at Harry. “Please, just - say you’re getting a puppy for Katie. A pug or something.” 

“Oh, I don’t know... I’m not a good liar...” 

“You don’t need to give an Oscar winning performance, Harry, christ. Just - if Del knows Katie’s getting a puppy, he might want one too, he’s extremely competitive when it comes to the wags - “ 

“Dele isn’t a wag?” Harry said, upper lip curled in confusion. “What?” 

“He’s - well he’s my wag - just - please, Harry, I’ll owe you one. Please?” Eric hit Harry with his biggest pout, channeling puss in boots and hoping it would work. 

“Fine. Oh my goodness, fine, just stop making that face.” Harry said, heading off towards the pitch. 

Eric bounded after him, excited. They did their initial drills and warm ups, the biting December cold making everyone move a little bit quicker. It was during a moment of rest that Eric initiated the conversation, giving Harry a sneaky thumbs up. 

“So, boys - what have the Mrs’s asked for this year?” 

“Shani wants some bag - an Hermès one,” Toby said as he stretched out his ham string. “Fucking expensive.” 

“Oh yeah?” Dele said, interested. “Probably be cheaper buying her a bloody Tesla or something. Stick a Louis Vuitton in it to keep her sweet,” he joked. 

Whilst they bantered Eric made eyes at Harry, urging him to speak. Harry looked pained and opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, driving Eric crazy. 

“Harry? What about you?” Eric interrupted, taking the reigns. Everyone looked at where Harry was shuffling from foot to foot awkwardly. 

“Uh - well, I think - I mean, she mentioned - a dog? An um. A pug?” 

“Oh? Even with the new baby around?” Asked Toby, and Harry shot Eric a look of panic. 

“Well - yeah, but - “ 

“A pug you said?” Eric shouted, a bit too loudly. 

“Yes! A pug. A pug dog.” 

“Eric wants a new dog too,” Dele snorted. “I’m not allowing it. The house will be like a fucking zoo. You sourced one out yet?” 

“One what?” Harry said dopily. 

“A dog? You found a breeder?” 

Harry looked at Eric again, floundering. “I just thought I’d get one at Pets at Home - “ 

“Fuck sake, Harry!” Cried Eric, as Dele looked between them and put two and two together. 

“Did he put you up to this?” He asked Harry, throwing a thumb at Eric. “Unbelievable!” 

“I’m sorry, Eric!” Whined Harry, throwing his hands up. “I’m a shit liar!” 

“Thanks for nothing,” Eric grumbled, folding his arms. “One bloody job.” 

“What did you think, Eric, because Harry had a puppy I’d want one?” Dele asked, shaking his head. 

“No, he thought because Katie had one you’d want one.” Harry supplied, and Eric threw him daggers that could kill. 

“I’m going to murder you,” Dele hissed. 

Eric was about to defend himself when the whistle blew for training to resume, and the moment had to wait for later. 

— 

In the car on the way home, Dele was quiet. Eric stayed quiet too, the tension compelling him to keep his mouth closed. He didn’t know why Dele was so angry and he didn’t understand why he was being so stubborn. He wanted to argue his point some more but instead he looked out of the passenger window dejectedly, forehead against the glass. 

They were nearly home when Dele said “I’m annoyed with you, Dier.” 

Eric didn’t say anything, which was maybe the wrong thing to do. 

“I’m fucking wound up. I told you NO. I told you no and you made Harry lie for you.” 

“You sound like my mother,” Eric muttered. 

“Excuse me?!” Dele yelled, enraged. “Your mother? Yeah, maybe I do sound like your mother, because I’m the only one here thinking like a grown up! You’re ridiculous Eric, utterly ridiculous - we can’t handle another dog!” 

“Ridiculous?” Eric looked at Dele, his feelings hurt. “I’m ridiculous? Wow, Del. Okay. Wow.” 

“Yeah, ridiculous! I don’t know what to do with you! The answer is no, and I don’t want to talk about this again - no, we cannot get a dog for Christmas! Now STOP! ASKING!” 

The silence after Dele’s shout was cringe worthy in its contrast and Eric looked back out of the window, biting down on the inside of his cheek. No one said a word for the remainder of the drive and when they were home Dele turned off the engine and slammed the car door, going into the house and up the stairs without looking back. 

He went to the bathroom and locked the door behind himself, breathing heavily. Dele turned on the shower and waited for it to heat up, adrenalin still coursing round his system. He got in the shower and washed his hair, brushed his teeth. By the time he got out he’d relaxed and was feeling bad for shouting, for calling Eric names. He towelled himself off and pulled on soft joggers and a hoodie, going down the stairs with an apology on the tip of his tongue. He heard Eric in the kitchen and he walked barefoot down the hall, listening. 

Dele froze just outside the doorframe. Eric was sat on the floor with his back to the hall, Clay and Cisco lying next to him. He was still in his training clothes and he was petting Clay’s head forlornly, talking away. 

“I know you guys were excited, and so was I, but it’s just not going to happen at the minute... I know you wanted a sister. Don’t look at me like that, cisc, I did try. Your dad just isn’t - he thinks it’s a bad idea. He’s just stressed, I think. He doesn’t want another doggie because he wants to be able to look after it properly, that’s all. It’s not that he doesn’t love you. Or me. He’s just... he’s being a grown up. So yeah. Just the four of us, for now, eh? Just the four of us.” 

Dele stepped back up the corridor silently, stealthily, with a humongous lump in his throat. 

— 

Approximately four days after their argument, Dele was driving back to their house at 7am in the pitch black. He’d been up for hours and wouldn’t be home for another twenty minutes, but he’d had a job to do, and it couldn’t wait. 

The roads were empty, pre rush hour, which was good because Dele was very much distracted by the puppy in his passenger seat, chewing at the red bow tied around her neck. She kept on staring at Dele, which was annoying, because she was so cute and Dele didn’t want to like her. 

“Now listen, dog,” he said when they were close to the house. “I’m in charge, no matter who tells you what in the house. I’m the master. No chewing, no peeing, no shitting in my house. No possessiveness with Eric, either, he’s definitely mine. No fighting with the other dogs.” He glanced down at the puppy, who was looking at him with a tilted head. “And you don’t sleep in our bed. Ever. Okay?” 

The puppy continued to look at him and Dele patted her soft head twice, sighing out the windscreen. He pulled up in the drive way and turned off the engine, scooping the puppy up with one hand and straightening her bow. “Come on then,” he said to her, opening the door and getting out. 

The house was silent, Eric still in bed upstairs. Dele took of his shoes, the puppy tucked under his arm, and climbed the stairs. He pushed open the bedroom door and smiled at Eric, asleep on his stomach with the sheets pooled around his waist. Dele went to his own side of the bed and climbed in, murmuring “Hey, sleepy head.” He put the dog down on the mattress and let her go to Eric, climbing on his broad shoulders with her little paws, licking stripes on his skin. 

Eric’s eyes opened with a frown, looking at Dele and then down at the dog and then back at Dele. 

“No way?” He whispered, not moving. “Del? Is this a joke?” 

Dele shook his head. “Merry Christmas. She’s all yours.” 

Eric sat up carefully, picking up the dog and looking at her like he was holding a diamond, his mouth ajar. “Oh my god - are you sure?” 

Dele nodded. “I’m sorry I was so stubborn about it. But we’ve got two, what’s another one?” 

“Oh Del,” Eric breathed, leaning in and kissing Dele on the mouth. “Oh my god, I love you so much.” 

Dele smiled into the kiss, his heart warm and happy. Eric pulled away much too soon, wanting to play with the puppy. He smothered her with kisses which she returned eagerly and Eric cooed and laughed and smiled so big it must’ve been hurting. 

“What shall we call her?” He said, looking back at Dele. 

“I was thinking - if you want - Comet? Like, it’s Christmassy, you know, the reindeer, and it starts with a C. I know you’ve got a theme going on.” 

“It’s perfect,” he breathed, holding the puppy up again. “Little comet.” 

Eric put her down on the bed and she toddled over to Dele, climbing into the space between his crossed legs. She rested her head on his thigh and fell asleep, exhausted from her big morning. Eric took out his phone and snapped a picture of them, beaming happily. 

“This is the best, best thing in the world,” he said as he leaned in for another kiss. “I love you so much. Merry Christmas, D-boy.” 

“Merry Christmas, Diet. I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow is a jarcus porn without plot. Merry bloody Christmas


	4. 4. Jesse Lingard & Marcus Rashford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> White Christmas - Otis Reading

Marcus had come to Jesse’s to borrow a blender. It was supposed to be a fleeting visit, a dash in and out, but they’d ended up embroiled in a fifa war and neither of them noticed the snow until the emergency alert had popped up on their phones, warning them to stay inside and avoid the roads unless in necessity. They’d jumped up and peered out the window and there indeed was a raging snow storm, the ground already blanketed. 

“Shit,” Jesse murmured, breath fogging up the window. “Reckon you’ll have to stay here for a bit now.” 

“No shit, Sherlock,” Marcus replied, and Jesse elbowed him. “You making me dinner then?” 

Jesse made chicken and asparagus for Marcus’s tea. He’d originally placed a tin of beans down in front of him and laughed so hard he choked and needed to be thumped in the back. They washed the dishes together and played Fifa for a bit longer, eventually growing bored and turning off the play station. Jesse started growing a bit stir crazy after a while, and he decided to channel his energy into annoying Marcus. He clambered on top of him where he lay on the sofa, tugging at the strands of his hair. Marcus just lay there looking bored, used to Jesse’s funny turns. 

“Marrrrrcus Rrrrrrashforrrrddddd.” Jesse kept repeating, rolling the rs. “Mrrrrr Beaaaan.” 

“You’re so annoying,” Marcus huffed, wincing as Jesse pulled his hair particularly painfully. “Can’t believe you have any friends.” 

“Bet I can make you cry,” Jesse said, eyes sweeping over Marcus’s body. “How high’s your pain threshold?” 

“High enough to put up with you,” Marcus said, and Jesse pinched Marcus’s lips closed, pulling on them firmly. 

He lifted one of Marcus’s arms and put his hand down the collar of his t-shirt, tugging at his armpit hair. “I could pluck your armpits.” He moved and pinched Marcus’s nipples. “I could electrocute your nips.” He rose up suddenly and slammed down on Marcus’s abdomen, causing him to oof in pain. “I could make you piss yourself.” 

“I’ll kill you,” Marcus groaned, bringing his hands up Jesse’s thighs to rest on his hips, holding him steady so he couldn’t pull that same move again. “Going to kill you.” 

“Kill me? Ha ha ha. Don’t think so. I’ll kill you. I’m like a vampire.” He leaned down low, breathing onto Marcus’s neck. “Suck your blood.” He opened his mouth and grazed his teeth against the side of Marcus’s neck, right over the carotid. Marcus hummed, the vibrations of it passing through his chest into Jesse’s, and it encouraged Jesse to press his tongue flat against the space, sucking slightly. Marcus’s hands tightened on Jesse’s hips, and Jesse felt his pulse quicken underneath his tongue. 

He sucked hard enough to leave a bruise, and as though he couldn’t help himself Marcus groaned, a choked off sound that he attempted to swallow. Jesse sat up a bit and put a hand in the centre of Marcus’s chest, looking down at him with a half grin. 

“Yeah?” He said, and Marcus blinked up at him, mouth ajar. 

“I mean, yeah,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Why not?” 

Jesse sat all the way up, his arse resting on Marcus’s crotch, and rucked up his t-shirt, exposing his chest. Jesse raked his nails down it, pouting, thinking. Then he lowered himself again and flicked his tongue back and forth over Marcus’s nipples. 

“Shit without tits,” he said, and Marcus laughed. 

“Sorry.” 

“Should be.” Jesse dropped his arse down hard on Marcus’s crotch and ground against it, hips moving in a circular motion. “You getting hard, Rashy?” 

Marcus put his hands behind his head and smiled, biting his lip. “Keep wriggling around like that and I might.” 

Jesse moved some more and then he felt it, hard against the underside of his thigh, thick and definitely present. He was using his hand on Marcus’s chest as leverage and he felt distinctly like he was riding a mechanical bull. 

“You ever gonna do anything with this?” Marcus said after a few moments, the muscles in his biceps jumping with unspent energy. “Gonna ride me or what?” 

“Hold on,” Jesse said, jumping off Marcus suddenly and tearing out of the room. “Take your trousers off!” 

He came back seconds later holding a bottle of lube and a condom. He froze when he saw Marcus lying there on the couch with his trousers and underwear off, hard cock curved up against his hip. Jesse had seen him naked countless times but never like this, and the sight was nice. He approved of it. 

“Right then,” he said, throwing the condom at Marcus. “Put that on.” He started taking his trousers off whilst Marcus did what he was told, rolling it down expertly. Jesse took his top off too because he was an all or nothing kind of lad and watched Marcus impatiently, tapping his foot. 

Marcus looked over at him, eyes raking over Jesse’s body. “C’mere then,” he said, moving his hand over his cock a couple times. Jesse came back and threw his leg over Marcus’s thighs, resting himself just below his groin this time. Jesse grabbed Marcus’s right hand and drizzled lube onto two of his fingers, concentrating hard. When that was done Marcus brought the hand behind Jesse and, with his index finger, pushed into Jesse’s body. 

It felt strange, Jesse had to admit. He found he had tensed up and Marcus had to put a hand on his thigh and tell him to relax. He consciously tried to let go, exhaling a breath and furrowing his brows. It was easier then and Marcus got his whole finger in. He pulled it in and out, feeling the soft warmth of the inside of Jesse’s body, marvelling at how close they were. 

Jesse was tilted forward to allow leverage and his thighs must’ve been burning but he persevered, face a medley of emotions. “Can I fuck you yet?” He choked out, and Marcus had to force himself not to laugh. 

“Not ready yet.” 

“Well make it ready. I want it now.” 

“Hold your horses,” Marcus told him firmly. “Patience.” He worked the second finger in and stretched him open, enjoying the way it made Jesse’s jaw go slack. 

When he could wait no longer Jesse squirted lube onto Marcus’s cock, jacking it twice and then holding it straight. He rose and lowered down onto it, bit by bit, the stretch of it making him feel surreal. 

“Oh my god, that’s good,” Marcus said, watching Jesse without helping him. “So tight.” 

“Obviously,” Jesse said. He was trying not to moan, unwilling to give Marcus the satisfaction, but he felt so good that he was seriously struggling. “Don’t help,” Jesse said, getting comfortable. “Let me do it myself.” 

Marcus held up his hands, licked his lips. Jesse closed his eyes and clenched down, holding still. A smile broke out across his face and he said “I can feel you. Throbbing. Inside me.” 

“Mmm?” 

“Yeah.” Jesse started moving then, bringing himself up and down in an athletic manner. The noise of it was obscene, the slick drag of his skin against the condom. 

“This is like... quite slutty,” Marcus huffed out, his eyes transfixed on Jesse’s own curving dick. “Just saying. Filthy.” 

Jesse couldn’t help the satisfied smile that gave him, and he looked away as he continued fucking himself on Marcus. 

“You’re using me and it’s so hot. I could come,” Marcus said, and Jesse shot him a warning look. 

“Don’t dare,” he said, slapping Marcus’s ribs. “Don’t you dare.” 

The pace was torturous, honestly. Jesse started getting tired and slowing down, and Marcus was finding it hard not to put hands on him. Jesse slowed to a steady rock back and forth, his breathing slow and his expression fucked out, and Marcus said “I’m going to take over now,” and Jesse said “mhmm.” 

Marcus sat up suddenly and lifted Jesse in one fluid movement, holding him like he weighed nothing. He laid him down on the rug and wrapped a fist around his cock, pumping once, twice, three times, and then he was going like a jack hammer, slamming into Jesse hard enough to give him carpet burn all over his back. At that point Jesse was incapable of keeping his mouth shut. He was whimpering like hell, his fingers digging stripes into Marcus’s back. 

“Do you like that?” Marcus said into Jesse’s ear, warm air brushing the side of his face. “Is that good?” 

Jesse whined loudly. “Yes,” he gasped. “So good. You’re so good at that.” 

“Touch yourself,” Marcus instructed, folding Jesse’s leg back to allow himself to get deeper. “I want you to come. M’not gonna last a lot longer.” 

Jesse did as he was told, snaking a hand between their bodies and taking a hold of himself. He touched his cock for a grand total of thirteen seconds and was coming with a yelp, pressing his forehead into Marcus’s shoulder and shaking everywhere. Marcus could feel the orgasm from the inside of Jesse’s body; could feel the contraction of his muscles and the shake of his limbs and it made him come too, stilling as he spilled into the condom, inside his best friend. 

Marcus collapsed onto Jesse and they lay there for a little while in silence. Marcus’s weight eventually became too much and Jesse pushed him off and out with a grimace. He looked at Marcus and frowned. 

“You know that feeling when you’re watching porn and after you come you’re disgusted by it?” 

Marcus rolled his eyes and peeled off the condom. “Fuck off,” he sighed, getting to his feet. He pulled on his underwear and then left the room to discard of the condom in his hand. 

Jesse got up and dressed himself, peering outside at the still falling snow. It was probably a good thing Marcus couldn’t leave, because if he did right then god knows how awkward it would’ve been when they saw each other again. 

He flopped down on the couch and turned on the TV, settling on Corrie. Marcus came in and got dressed himself, sitting down on the other side of the sofa and propping his feet on the table. Jesse side eyed him for that but said nothing. 

“Got some ice cream in the freezer if you want,” Jesse mumbled, both of them staring at the screen. 

“Could do.” 

“Go get it then.” 

Marcus did get up, because that was what he did; he did what Jesse told him to. As he rifled through the freezer he wondered how many more times they’d have sex before the roads were cleared. Whatever, he wasn’t complaining. He grabbed two spoons and hurried back to the living room, tossing one to Jesse and sitting cross legged on the sofa. 

He opened the lid of the ice cream and stuck his spoon in it, focussed again on Coronation Street. It took him a moment to realise Jesse was staring at him in disgust. 

“What?” He said around a mouthful of ice cream. 

“Get bowls, Beans. I don’t want your saliva near me.” 

Marcus looked at Jesse carefully, like he’d maybe lost it. And then he laughed, and laughed and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow - Jordan invites HOW many people to the Christmas party?!?!


	5. 5. Jordan Pickford & John Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December - Ariana Grande (my fave Xmas song)

Jordan wanted to have a Christmas party. 

“The Kardashians do one every year!” He’d reasoned to John. “You love the Kardashians.” 

John rolled his eyes and didn’t look away from the TV. “I fancy Kylie Jenner. Doesn’t mean I want to put a pillow down my arse and pretend to be Kim Kardashian.” 

“Why wouldn’t we have a Christmas party, though? It’ll be fun. I can invite my mates up and - “ 

“That’s what worries me.” 

“How? How would that worry you?” 

“They’ll trash the house!” John exclaimed, dragging his eyes away from I’m A Celebrity to ogle at Jordan. “Your friends will destroy my fucking house!” 

Jordan’s mouth fell open. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just insult me and my mates like that.” 

“Can we not just have drinks or something, babe?” John offered, looking back at the TV. “Do a secret Santa, a potluck?” 

“Potluck? What the fuck is a potluck?” 

“It’s like - everyone has to bring something to eat but you dunno what you’re gonna get. Could be ten desserts, could be ten lasagnas. It’s fun.” 

Jordan pulled a face at the back of John’s head and rubbed at his eyes. “A potluck - oh my god - fine. Fine, can I invite people over for dinner and drinks? I’ll make me animal friends behave.” 

John looked at Jordan again and patted him on the knee. “They aren’t animals, Jord. They’re just laddy.” 

Jordan wanted to throttle John, he really did. Instead he smiled sweetly, kissed John on the cheek, and went away to plan for his ‘dinner and drinks’.

— 

John didn’t hear anything else about Jordan’s party. He knew Jordan was planning something, knew the date he’d arranged to have people over, but the guest list was a mystery. John had invited a couple of lads from City and mentioned it to Kyle, who he was sure probably wouldn’t come in the end. 

The day of the dinner John was at the training ground going over a few things, doing some media stuff. It was so close to Christmas that he did everything with a little spring in his step. He loved Christmas and was excited for his first with Jordan as a couple. John finished up an interview and took out his phone, checking some messages before he set off to drive home. 

“Fucking buzzing for tonight, lad!” someone called, and John looked up with a frown. 

Delph was looking at him from across the room, having suddenly appeared from nowhere. John opened his mouth and closed it again, confused. 

“The party?” Delph prompted, looking at John with a cocked brow. “Your Christmas party?” 

John’s eyes widened. “Oh. Yeah - sorry, bud, I didn’t realise you were able to come. Yeah - hold on a sec,” he babbled, turning and walking into the corridor. 

John scrolled through his contacts and went to Jordan’s name, his stomach turning. Jordan picked up on the third ring with a great big booming “Stonesy!” 

“Jordan,” John hissed. “HOW many people have you invited to this party?!” 

Jordan went silent. “Well - I couldn’t leave people out, obviously, so I had to say to everyone - “ 

“EVERYONE?! WHO IS EVERYONE, JORDAN?” 

“Calm down, will you? Just the England lads. And some of the Everton boys and obviously my friends from home -“ 

“Oh my god - “ 

“It’s Christmas, John! Lighten up!” 

“Don’t do anything crazy till I’m home. I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t let anyone in!” 

Jordan was about to say “too late” but John hung up on him, bustling down the corridor without looking back. He was still wearing his Man City Christmas jumper and he looked ridiculous but he had to get back and stop Jordan and his friends from destroying his home. 

— 

When he arrived at the house, Jordan and ten of his closest mates from Washington were in the living room setting up a DJ deck. Jordan cried out happily when he saw John enter and approached him with a swagger, holding out his hand for a fist bump that John ignored. 

“Y’Alright?” Jordan drawled, looking John up and down. His breath smelled of Budweiser. 

John narrowed his eyes at him. “A dinner, I said. A potluck dinner.” 

Jordan rolled his eyes. “John, you know Chris and Charlie.” John nodded curtly at the men, who were busy fixing cables and wrestling with huge speakers. “And this is Aaron, Ben, Darren, that’s James, this is James’s cousin John, this is Thomas and that’s Mike and Niall. Mike’s a big City fan, by the way.” 

“Fucking love you, mate,” Mike said, bounding over and holding out a hand for John to shake. 

John smiled at him politely and murmured that it was nice to meet him, then looked at Jordan. “Can I have a word? In the hall?” 

Jordan looked apprehensive but John gave him A Look and he followed, telling his friends he’d be a second. 

“Jordan, I’m not happy - “ 

“I swear, John. I’ll clean the place up and it won’t be a late one. Please, just be sound?” 

John sighed, thought about it. It was Christmas after all, and this was Jordan’s house too. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shrugged. “Fine. But - please, please behave.” 

“Legend, thank you - “ 

“And what the fuck was that fist bump? When I first come in?” 

Jordan looked sheepishly at his feet. “The lads - they’ve never seen me with a bloke before, like - it’s weird, I dunno - “ 

“Never mind, I get it. Get back to your DJ shit,” John said with a shake of his head. 

“Cheers, bud,” Jordan said, turning around. 

John caught him by the elbow. “And don’t ever call me bud again. I lick your arsehole.” 

Jordan blushed a bit and pulled out of John’s grasp, leaving him to his own devices. 

John gathered himself and plodded off to the kitchen. The dishwasher needed to be emptied, which irked him, and the kitchen roll had run out and not been replaced. John asked Alexa to play some chilled RnB and took to tidying up, making sure to put anything breakable away in the cupboards. He was humming along to Burn by Usher when suddenly and from nowhere came the screeching sound of hardcore techno, so loud John jumped and dropped a glass. It wasn’t just any techno, it was a fucking remix of All I Want For Christmas, and John clenched his teeth. 

He closed the dishwasher and went to confront Jordan but was interrupted by the doorbell. He changed course and went to the front door, pulling it open a tad aggressively. Eric and Dele were standing there, wearing Christmas jumpers and holding between them three bottles of Grey Goose vodka, a litre of Chambord and a magnum of prosecco. 

John just looked at them. “Fuck’s all that for?” 

Eric and Dele looked at each other. “Pickford said it was potluck on the booze. He said to bring enough for fifty, give or take.” 

John’s fist clenched on the door frame, and he forced a smile. “Please, come in,” he said through gritted teeth. 

“You okay?” Dele asked, shouting over the music and looking John up and down as he came into the house. “You seem tense.” 

“Told Jordan not to have a big party, and he ignored me.” 

Eric snorted. “Are you surprised?” 

John lead them into the kitchen, past the living room where Jordan and his mates were bouncing around. They had just managed to put their bottles down when Jordan’s friend James burst into the kitchen, shouting “Oh my god - it’s Dele Alli!” 

Dele was suddenly preoccupied, his ear being chewed off by Jordan’s amorous friend. John fetched cups and passed one to Eric, rolling his eyes. “Alright, let’s start drinking. I can’t stay sober for this.” 

— 

It was during the third play of techno Do They Know Its Christmas that Kyle, Delph and Stirling arrived, and close behind them came Harry Kane and Gareth, Jordan Henderson, Marcus and Jesse. Trent turned up but John told him to go home, insisting he was too young. Trent had shouted Hendo’s name over John’s shoulder, appealing for help, but John closed the door on him. 

The Everton lads turned up in a fucking mini bus and John watched open mouthed as they filtered into the house, the place packed with people. John had largely been sticking to the kitchen with the England team but he was a couple of vodkas in by that point and he ventured down the hall, smiling as people patted him on the back and greeted him like he was an old friend. He squeezed through the crowd, past person after person, and made his way to the living room. 

Jordan was still in there, doubled over in laughter with his friends. John went to him instinctively, naturally. He moved across the room and approached Jordan with a hand on his bicep, his fingers against the dark tattoos there. John jumped when Jordan jerked his arm away like he’d been burned, turning around to look at John with an angry scowl that changed to something softer when he realised who it was. 

“Oh,” he called over the music. “Thought you were someone else touching us.” 

John sucked his teeth. “Come and say hi to the lads, will you? I’m in there on me own. I’m missing you,” he said, trying to lean into Jordan’s side. 

Jordan responded by moving away an inch, looking around at his friends, holding out a hand on John’s shoulder. “Maybe later, yeah?” He said, smiling at John like he was some kind of strange fan that Jordan couldn’t be bothered with. John was seething. 

John turned around and stormed out, ignoring the people who tried to speak to him. He waded through the bodies in the hall and dashed up the stairs, stomping into his room and slamming the door. 

It was quieter like that, more peaceful, and he could think better. Jordan was being a little dick head, that was for sure, and John wasn’t putting up with it. He sat on the edge of the bed and thought, hard, about how to get him back. He considered going downstairs and flirting with Kyle but he didn’t want Jordan to start a fight, especially when his friends were around to gas him up, so he abandoned that plan. He considered disappearing and not popping back up for three days but he didn’t want to worry Jordan; only make him regret acting like such a twat. John scrubbed his hands across his face and sighed out loud, wracking his brains. 

And then, in a stroke of genius, it struck him. John took off his jeans and jumper and discarded them on the floor. He straightened up the duvet on the bed and lay down on top of it, licking his lips. He was wearing grey boxer briefs, tight fitting and soft, and he put his hand in his pants and played with himself for a bit, hardening up nicely. He thought about the party downstairs and him upstairs like this and he worked himself up, his heart hammering steadily behind his ribcage. 

When he was good and ready John picked up his phone and texted Jordan, saying ‘come up right now it’s an emergency’. Then he dropped his phone beside him and took his hand out of his pants, marvelling downwards at the curve of his hard cock against the cotton of his pants. John propped a hand behind his head and then slowly, experimentally, bucked his hips upwards, causing his stomach muscles to contract and his cock to find the most tantalising bit of friction against his underwear. 

John repeated the movement, essentially fucking up into nothing with just the feel of his boxers providing any sort of stimulation. It felt good, exceedingly good, gloriously teasing and pleasurable at the same time. He knew it was going to take him ages to come like this and he closed his eyes and settled back, just moving again and again on the mattress. 

Before long he heard the familiar sound of Jordan’s heavy steps on the stairs, and his breath hitched. He was really turned on, his chest flushed, his nipples hard, and he was employing every shred of his will power not to just wank himself off. He bit his lip and looked at the door, heart fluttering when Jordan pushed it open and came in with a frown, saying “John? What’s going on - “ Jordan froze when he saw John on the bed, hard and breathy. “John?” He said again, softly, the door clicking shut behind him. “What you doing?” 

“Making myself come without touching,” he answered airily, like it was obvious. “So fucking turned on right now.” 

Jordan swallowed and stepped to the foot of the bed, leaning on the end of the bed frame with his forearms. He looked at John hungrily, eyes fixated on the outline of his erection. 

“Fuck... this is hot, John, shit... but it’ll take a while, why don’t you let me blow you or - “ 

“Let you what? Blow me? Why would you do that?” John said, his cock twitching visibly. “You’re not gay, are you?” 

Jordan looked at John, confused, and then the penny dropped. “Oh - John, fucking hell, don’t do this.” 

John whined low, hips moving steadily. He wanted to touch himself so badly. He looked at Jordan and he couldn’t help the way his dick strained when he did, jumping in his pants. Jordan saw it and swallowed, dragging his gaze away and looking John in the eye. 

“You look so good,” Jordan said, barely a whisper. “Making us very hard right now.” 

John blinked up at him, fisted the bed sheet. “Know what I’m thinking about?” 

Jordan tilted his head upwards. “What you thinkin bout?” 

“Ross. Barkley. Fucking me.” 

Jordan cocked a brow. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Reckon he’d be really - really rough,” John said, his breath coming in short little bursts. He was so unbelievably hard. 

Jordan put a hand on his own dick, chewed his bottom lip. “You think so, do you?” 

“Yeah. Think he’d know what to do with me. Know what I need.” 

Jordan smirked. “Ross Barkley wouldn’t have the first idea how to handle you, sweetheart.” 

John reached for his phone, never letting up with the motion of his hips. “Yeah? Let’s ask him,” he said, dialling Ross’s number. Jordan froze apprehensively, unsure if this was a step too far. He said nothing though, just watching John from the end of the bed. 

Ross picked up pretty quickly, and John had him on loud speaker. “Alright, Stonesy?” Ross said, his voice thick and deep. John’s cock twitched at it and Jordan straightened up a bit, face growing stern. 

“Hey, Ross,” John said, doing his best to sound normal. “What you up to?” 

“Not much, John, this and that. How’s things on your end?” 

John looked at Jordan. “Good, things are good. Just wanted to hear your voice.” 

Jordan shook his head at John, a warning. John took no notice. 

Ross laughed. “You drunk or something? I miss you too. Miss the Everton days man, what a laugh that was.” 

“Nah, not drunk. Horny, funnily,” John breathed. 

Jordan opened his mouth and John put a finger to his lips, frowning. 

“Horny? Shit,” Ross said. “You not shagging anyone at the minute?” 

“Well, you know. There was someone, but I’m not sure what’s happening with it, you know? Don’t think they were too proud of me.” 

Ross hummed on the phone. “Yeah. Well, listen - come over, if you want. I’m not doing anything.” 

Jordan had enough then. “Careful, Barkley,” he said, voice menacing. 

“Eh? Who’s that?” Said Ross, confused. “Fuck’s going on?” 

“It’s Jordan Pickford,” Jordan said, eyeballing John. “John thinks he’s funny. You should hang up now.” 

“Don’t hang up,” John said, glaring at Jordan.

“John, I mean it, I’m not enjoying this anymore - “ 

“You come over here, Ross - “ 

“What? What’s going on?” 

“That’s ENOUGH,” Jordan barked, climbing onto the bed and reaching for John’s phone. “ENOUGH.” He grabbed the iphone and hung up on Ross, throwing it onto the floor with a thud. 

John was laughing breathlessly, enjoying himself, still working his hips up and down. “What’s the matter?” 

Jordan closed his eyes and sighed, kneeling on the bed beside John. He was visibly hard in his jeans and John wanted to touch him, but he maintained self control. Jordan opened his eyes and looked at John. 

“I’m sorry. I get it. I’ve been a dick. Point taken. Let me touch you, and we can get downstairs. I’ll tell people to leave. I’ll kiss you in front of me mates. Just let me -“ 

“No,” John gasped. “Don’t touch me. You don’t get to be my boyfriend when it’s convenient.” 

Jordan let out a huge groan. “It’s not like that and you know it.” 

“I don’t know anything,” John moaned, eyes closing and opening at random. 

Jordan was quiet for a minute, watching him. “That must be killing you, John. Let me make you feel good.” 

John looked at him like he wanted to relent but shook his head slightly. “Don’t need you.” 

Jordan looked genuinely pained, his nails scratching at his thighs. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’ll talk dirty to you, then. Know what turns you on.” He leaned down, bringing his mouth to John’s ear. “Ross Barkley doesn’t know what to say to get you hot, but I do.” He cleared his throat, let out a gust of air against John’s ear. “I love you.” 

John let out a throaty moan, his eyelids fluttering closed. Jordan watched as John’s cock moved against the fabric. 

“I love you so bad. I’m madly in love with you.” 

John whined, loud enough that they’d hear him downstairs if it wasn’t for the blaring Christmas music. 

Jordan unbuckled his belt and undid his fly, putting his hand down his own pants. “I would go to war for you. I think about you pretty much constantly.” 

“That’s so hot, Jord,” John gasped out. “That’s so sexy.” 

“I nearly made a fan account about you on Instagram but I didn’t know how to set up a new profile.” 

John laughed slightly, opening his eyes to watch Jordan stroking himself whilst staring at John’s moving hips. “I’m going to come soon,” he said quietly, his fingers seeking out Jordan’s. “Gonna come.” 

“Come for me, go on. Come now.” 

John looked at Jordan’s face intently, like he was concentrating. “Jordan,” he managed, cheeks pink. 

“Good boy. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” 

Just like John was coming in his pants, his stomach contracting beautifully. No sooner had he relaxed than Jordan bent down and pulled back John’s boxers, swiping his tongue through the come on his skin. John sighed and put a hand on Jordan’s head and Jordan was coming too, his face pressed hard into John’s hip. 

They lay there in silence for a few moments, the thumping base from downstairs the only noise. 

“I was thinking about Ross the whole time,” John said petulantly after a while. 

Jordan snorted. “Yeah? Sounded a lot like my name you were babbling there.” 

“Jordan Henderson I meant.” 

Jordan laughed and said “Shut up, you daft twat,” leaning in for a kiss. 

John allowed the kiss for a second or two then put his hand on Jordan’s chest and pushed. “You taste of come,” he grimaced, face twisted up. 

“It’s your come,” Jordan argued, rolling off the bed and wiping himself down with the closest thing to hand. 

“Still mingin.” John got up too and changed out of his underwear, grabbing another pair from the drawer. He put the rest of his clothes on and checked his hair in the mirror. His cheeks were flushed but there was nothing he could do about that. He walked to Jordan and kissed him on the lips, allowing himself to be soft for a moment. “That was amazing. Felt so good. You have to try it, like that - “ 

“There’s no chance in hell I’ve got the patience for that. If you weren’t trying to spite me you wouldn’t have either. You looked beautiful though, proper beautiful. I love you so much.” 

John kissed him again, and they went downstairs hand in hand. 

“Come and hang out with my mates,” Jordan said, squeezing John’s fingers. 

John smiled at him and nodded, casting his eyes towards the kitchen - and spotted Trent, in the house, waving a bottle of vodka. “Hold on a minute - HOY! TRENT! I TOLD YOU YOU WEREN’T COMING IN!” And then he was off, disappearing into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow - Harry Kane gets his hands on THAT Gareth Southgate Christmas jumper...


	6. 6. Harry Kane and Gareth Southgate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d Like You For Christmas - Julie London

The bosses at the FA were having a Christmassy dinner and drinks in London for their donors and the media executives. It was a chance for them to chat to the players and managers, to find out where their money was going, how it was being used, and how it was appreciated. 

The invitation had said “holiday dress encouraged”. Harry Kane went right to Primark and perused the Christmas jumpers on offer, decidedly unimpressed with the selection. He didn’t want a jumper with Santa’s arse sticking out of a chimney, and the Rudolph one was suspiciously phallic. He tried H&M and their choices were even worse. 

Resignedly Harry left the shopping centre, nipping into Subway first and picking himself up a six inch chicken teriyaki, reasoning that it was Christmas and bad food was allowed. He carried his sandwich to the car and decided to eat it there before it got cold on the drive home. Harry climbed into the seat and turned the radio on, unwrapping the sub and taking out his phone. He scrolled through Twitter whilst he ate and then, like fate, he saw it - the Christmas jumper of all Christmas jumpers. 

It was a Gareth Southgate jumper. 

Someone had made a Gareth Southgate waistcoat Christmas jumper - it had blue arms, a navy waistcoat torso, a red tie. It was thirty five quid, which was more than Harry wished to spend on a jumper, but he reminded himself he could afford it and ordered one, a gleeful smile on his face. This was going to be brilliant, he thought. Gareth would love it. 

— 

The drinks were happening in the function suite at Wembley. 

Harry took an Uber there, having agreed to pick up Kieran Trippier ahead of time. He gave the driver the address and they drove there through the dark London streets, Christmas lights twinkling in the windows as they went. Harry was wearing a jacket over his jumper and he moved his arms to feel the wool on his skin, his heart fluttering with excitement. The car pulled up to Kieran’s and out he came, his breath visible in front of his face as he slid into the back beside Harry. 

“How’s it going?” He said as he sat down, smelling of winter night. 

“Not bad at all,” Harry said with a grin. “How’s the family?” 

Kieran launched into a spiel about his daughter, about how she was fascinated by the elf on the shelf and cried because she couldn’t open her advent calendar all at once. Harry listened intently and laughed when appropriate, and before long they were at Wembley, pulling up to the back entrance. 

Harry and Kieran thanked the driver and climbed out into the cold night. Kieran pulled a Santa hat from his pocket and put it on, rolling his eyes.

“Ridiculous dress code,” he grumbled. “We get it, it’s Christmas. But costume?” 

Harry laughed. “Cheer up, Tripps. Don’t be a Grinch.” 

They walked into the stadium together, greeting the staff they passed on the way. They bumped into some corporate suits at the elevators, made some small talk. Harry still hadn’t taken off his coat and he was thrumming with excitement. He hoped Gareth was already here. 

The doors opened onto the function suite. They were handed champagne flutes on entry and there was a cloak room to their left. Harry handed over his jacket and took a raffle ticket to claim it later, sticking it in the pocket of his trousers. He heard a snort behind him and turned round to see Kieran laughing, eyes on his jumper. 

“Nice,” he said, and Harry blushed. 

They found Dele and Eric chatting to some big wigs from BT Sport and they inserted themselves to the conversation with handshakes and Christmas wishes. Dele was wearing a Louis Vuitton Christmas jumper and Eric some sort of Versace cardigan, which was very Eric and Dele of them. They laughed at Harry’s own jumper, and then explained the joke to the BT guys who didn’t get it. 

Harry broke off eventually and grabbed another glass of champagne, searching the room for any sign of Gareth. He didn’t get far though because he was cornered by more FA suits, introducing him to people he’d never remember the names of. He talked at length about the World Cup and the upcoming Nations League finals, talked about getting the team excited even though it was a difficult concept to understand. 

Someone handed him a third glass of bubbles and he was beginning to feel blurry at the edges, ready for the food portion of the night to sober him up a bit. He excused himself from the conversation and went to the bathroom, eyes scanning for Gareth again. 

The bathrooms were empty when he walked in. He peed at the urinals and then walked to the sink, lathering up his hands carefully and making sure to get between each finger, under his nails - 

“Where on Earth did you get that jumper?” 

Harry looked up in the mirrors and there, behind him, was Gareth. Harry’s cheeks pinked and he smiled. 

“Hello,” he said, turning off the tap. “Do you like it?” 

Gareth was wearing a waistcoat and a blue shirt, just like Harry’s imitation jumper, and had a Christmas tie around his neck. He folded his arms and beamed fondly. “You’re one a million,” he said with a shake of his head. “Absolutely brilliant.” 

Harry would’ve purred if he could. He smiled so widely his teeth were showing, and he tried to school his expression but he couldn’t fight it, his tongue swiping his bottom lip. Gareth approached him with a hand out, eyes on Harry’s chest, and Harry’s breath caught. He looked at Gareth’s face and blinked, anticipating his touch - but the door banged open and they sprang apart, Gareth walking to the mirrors and touching his hair, Harry standing there floundering like an idiot. 

It was someone neither of them knew and he didn’t look at them as he walked up to the urinals, unzipping his trousers loudly and whistling. Gareth walked around Harry and held open the bathroom door. “Coming?” He asked. 

Harry went, hoping his cheeks would calm down before anyone could notice. He and Gareth walked side by side back to the mass of people; silent. They passed a server holding a tray of champagne and Gareth picked up two flutes, handing one to Harry. When they reached the crowd Gareth put a hand on the small of Harry’s back and steered him to a group of men in dark suits. 

“Matthew, Anthony, Paul - this is Harry Kane, the England Captain and Tottenham Hotspur player,” he said, sounding exceedingly proud. 

The men descended on Harry like vultures, knowing very well who he was, and Gareth watched them converse with a smug expression. Harry felt like a trophy wife, like something Gareth was really proud of, and the sensation both turned him on and made him embarrassingly happy. Gareth left at one point, someone pulling him off to talk to other important people, and Harry felt cold and lonely at the loss. He subconsciously wrapped his arms around himself and zoned out of the conversation he was in, his attention casting out for Gareth like a net. 

Someone announced over microphone that dinner was being served in the dining room and they all filtered in, consulting a seating plan at the door. Harry was sat at a table of FA executives with Dele, and he took his seat next to him, thankful that he wouldn’t have to entertain everyone here alone. Gareth was two tables away from him, which was two tables too far. 

Harry spent the remainder of the meal making eyes at Gareth across the room and dipping in and out of conversation, forcing poor Dele to do most of the work. He kept nudging Harry under the table and he’d drag his eyes away from Gareth and back to his own company, apologising and asking what had just been said. When the waiters were gathering up the dinner plates Dele hissed “Get a room” in Harry’s ear, but he pretended not to hear him. 

After their meal it was coffee and a shortbread selection and then final drinks in the function room. Harry was becoming itchy, starved of touch and attention. His jumper felt too small. He looked around as everyone dispersed from the tables and Gareth was gone, nowhere to be seen. It upset Harry and he wanted to leave, suddenly, to go home to bed. He took out his phone and opened the Uber app, ready to request a car, when a hand on his neck made him pause. 

“Don’t leave yet. Another hour of mingling then we can get out of here. I’ll have my driver take us.” Gareth stepped closer, dropped his voice. “Did you think I’d let you walk out of here on your own dressed like that?” 

Harry’s arms broke out in goosebumps. He said nothing, could do nothing, and Gareth stepped away from him to let him breathe. 

“Go over there and talk to that man in the blue Christmas jumper. He’s very important and he’s a very big Spurs fan.” 

Harry did as he was told. The man was delighted to see him, exclaiming that he’d been after him all night. Gareth winked at Harry from across the room and Harry smiled to himself, cheeks burning. 

— 

It was the longest hour of his life. 

Gareth was being infuriating, talking and laughing with so many people, so relaxed, behaving like he didn’t have anywhere else to be. Harry was buzzing out of his skin, checking the watch on his wrist near constantly. 

When the hour was up he all but sprinted to Gareth and tugged at his elbow. Gareth waved him off calmly, digging through his pocket. He handed Harry his raffle ticket and said “Fetch the coats.” 

Harry didn’t need to be asked twice. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet as the woman got their things, handing them to him with a polite smile. He grabbed them and rushed over to Gareth, not paying attention to where he was going, and bowled into Kieran, nearly knocking him off his feet. 

“Slow down, mate,” Kieran grumbled, shooting Harry the evil eye. “You leaving? Hold on, I’ll get my coat. We can share a cab again.” 

“No!” Harry said, too quickly. Kieran narrowed his eyes. “I’m - Gareth’s driving me home.” 

“Oh. Can he not drive me back too? It’s not out the way.” 

“Tripps,” Harry said, hoping his voice revealed how desperate he was. “It’s just me. And him.” 

Kieran’s eyes widened. “Oh. OH.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh. Well. Enjoy?” 

“Thanks,” Harry said, pushing past and finally making his way to Gareth. 

“Got the coats,” Harry said to Gareth, who turned slightly and patted his shoulder. 

“Good lad. Give me five more minutes.” 

Harry whined a bit and Gareth shot him a warning glare which made him shut up. He sighed and took himself to sit on an abandoned chair, waiting with the coats in his lap like a child waiting for a parent to finish yakking in the supermarket. Harry could cry. He wanted to fall on the floor and thump his fists on the carpet, he wanted to clamp himself around Gareth’s calf, he wanted to - 

“Ready?” Gareth asked, standing in front of Harry with his hands in his pockets. 

Harry shot up and nodded and Gareth smirked at him. “Let’s go then. Car’s waiting.” 

Harry was tripping over his feet to get out the place, still holding their coats. Gareth was walking smoothly beside him, hands in his pockets, looking like he was gliding on air. They passed the party goers without saying a word to anyone, not even to each other. They looked comic in their outfits, Gareth in the waistcoat and Harry a carbon copy of him, but there was nothing funny about the need they both felt to be on their own. 

Gareth said nothing to Harry in the lift downstairs. Harry was vibrating like a guinea pig, and Gareth knew it, could feel it. Still he didn’t touch, didn’t say anything. The car was waiting for them at the door. Gareth held open the door for Harry and he slid in, saying hi to the driver and throwing the jackets in the front seat. Gareth got in too, closing the door with a click and nodding at his driver in the rear view mirror. 

“Just my place, Patrick.” He said, and the car pulled off into the night. 

Finally, Gareth looked at Harry, turning his attention on him properly, and raised his eyebrows. Harry looked back at him, waiting. Gareth’s eyes flickered to his own crotch, and Harry’s went to the driver, confused. 

“Patrick, do me a favour? Stick your earphones in?” Gareth said, one arm propped along the middle seat headrest. 

Patrick picked some EarPods out of the console and stuck them in his ears, tapping away at the screen in the middle of the dash. Next thing, Harry could hear the tinny sound of rock music coming from them, Patrick drumming his hands on the steering wheel. Gareth slid forward marginally in his seat and spread his thighs, looking at Harry impatiently. 

Harry thought for a second or two about this, about whether this was something he was into, and then he dived forward, being choked by his seatbelt momentarily until Gareth leaned down and unclipped it. Harry dropped his face into Gareth’s crotch and breathed deeply; the smell of fabric conditioner and - faintly - aftershave. Harry moaned in his throat, low and rumbling, his nose swiping back and forth against the bulge in Gareth’s trousers. 

“So desperate,” Gareth huffed, hips moving of their own accord. “So eager.” 

Harry put his hands on Gareth’s belt and unclipped it easily, making light work of the button and zip too. He tugged down Gareth’s pants and moved his dick around so that the head was poking out, not wanting to completely undress him in the back of the car. Harry put his tongue out and licked it, just how he knew Gareth liked it, little movements. He sucked the whole head in, heart hammering at the musky taste of it. It never got old, having a dick in his mouth, the thrill of it. He wanted more, wanted it against the back of his throat, wanted his voice to be husky when he spoke, and he tried to take more, pulling the band of Gareth’s boxers lower. 

Gareth’s breath caught and he put a hand on Harry’s head, pushing him back and off. “Slow down,” Gareth said, putting his cock back into his pants. “Don’t want to come in the car.” 

Harry sat back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, chest rising and falling heavily, own erection clearly visible in his pants. He clipped his seatbelt back on, scrubbed a hand down his face. He looked out the window and then back at Gareth. “I want you so bad.” 

“I know. Just wait.” 

The drive was infuriatingly slow. Harry tripped over himself getting out the car, was at the door waiting for Gareth to come up the Garden path bouncing around like an excitable puppy. Gareth put the keys in the door and barely got the thing open and Harry was pushing in, dragging Gareth by the tie. The door was hardly closed and Harry was on his knees, getting rid of Gareth’s belt. He ripped the button open and Gareth said something like “bit unnecessary” but Harry didn’t care, finally, finally face to face with the full length of Gareth Southgate’s penis. 

It one fluid movement he had it down his throat, deep like a champ, wet and hot and tight in his mouth. Gareth dumped their coats and closed his eyes and put a hand in Harry’s hair, back against the wall. Harry popped off and marvelled at the sight of him for a second before going back down, using his hand and mouth to make Gareth feel like he was stuck in a whirlpool. He knew it never took long for a blowjob to make Gareth come and he was chasing the orgasm, desperate to have him ejaculate right into Harry’s mouth. 

Gareth, though, had other ideas. He found the strength from somewhere and pushed Harry back off, much to his whining disappointment, his face the picture of annoyance. 

“Please,” Harry croaked, looking up at Gareth pleadingly. “Please?” 

“I want to fuck you, Harry,” Gareth said, stepping out of his shoes. “I want to fuck you wearing that ridiculous jumper. I’m going to go to the kitchen and get myself a glass of water. I want to find you in the living room, in that jumper, and ready to be fucked, alright?” 

Harry nodded, because he’d never say no. He nodded and Gareth pressed his hard dick back into his pants, moving off down the hardwood floor and into his kitchen. Harry scrambled to his feet and into Gareth’s living room. There was a little Christmas tree on the table they usually did this on so he decided to bend over the arm of the couch instead. He spat on his own fingers and shoved his trousers down, pressing the fingers into himself roughly, unforgiving. He was biting into his own forearm, pretty sure he was sweating, frustrated because his arm wasn’t quite long enough to give him the kind of contact he wanted. He wanted to cry and to call for Gareth, wanted to be taken care of and stop having to wait. He thought he was going to explode and was whimpering into his sleeve when a pair of hands came and settled over his hips, a familiar chest falling over his back, a pair of lips at his ear. 

“Good boy. Good boy, Harry. You’ve done some incredible waiting tonight, haven’t you? I’m going to take care of you now. You deserve this.” 

Harry let out a choked off sob into his elbow. Gareth pressed his fingers to Harry’s arse, cold with lube, and checked the work he’d done so far, making sure he was good and ready for this. He didn’t want to keep him waiting any longer though and as soon as he was satisfied Gareth lined up and pushed in, his eyes rolling to the back of his head with the feel of it. Harry was quiet when Gareth bottomed out, and he leaned in close, pressing a kiss to Harry’s temple. 

“You good?” 

Harry nodded. “Yeah. So good.” 

“Alright. Keep me posted, okay? Tell me when it’s good and when it’s not so good.” 

“It’s always good. Please,” he begged, pushing back. 

Gareth started to move slowly. It must’ve been hard, given he’d been getting stimulated for a little while now, but he didn’t come, focussing on Harry’s needs. He put a hand round and tugged at Harry’s dick, trying to match the strokes in tandem. 

Harry was a mess. He was incoherent, which he often got when he was as needy as this. Gareth had thought he was putting it on the first time they’d fucked and asked him to stop, and Harry had tried, but the attempts to repress himself had made him sob uncontrollably for half an hour and Gareth needed to apologise profusely. 

He had to be really careful when Harry was like this, careful to intuit his tone and body language. Tears usually meant Harry was too over stimulated and silence was bad. Repetitive yelping was usually bad too. Gareth lived to take care of Harry, so he made it his job to know, to know what was okay and what wasn’t. In that moment though it was good, all good, and Gareth went to work on Harry’s prostate, whispering things in his ear. 

“Turning up dressed like that. Wanted to let everyone know you’re mine, didn’t you? Might as well have my name on your forehead. Oh my god, Harry, you’re mine. You’re so mine.” They were both going to come soon, Gareth could feel it. He twisted his hand over the tip of Harry’s cock, just how he liked it, and said “Come for daddy, Harry. Go on, that’s it.” Harry let out a cry and came all over Gareth’s fist, the sofa, the jumper. Gareth was right behind him, spilling into him messily, open mouth pressed against Harry’s neck. 

Gareth pulled out and turned Harry around, moving his hair out of his eyes and framing his face with his hands. He scanned Harry’s expression, looking for signs, and smiled. 

“You good?” 

Harry nodded and grinned, dopey, spaced out. Gareth kissed him at long last, kissed him like he was precious and special and important. 

“You were great tonight, Harry. With the people at the event, you really did great. It was hard to keep my hands off you.” 

Harry laughed gently, blinked. “Thank you. You were great, too.” 

Gareth smiled warmly and stood up, stretching and loosening his tie. “Right. Let’s get you in the shower then, eh?” He took Harry by the hand and they went upstairs. 

Gareth was sorry when Harry had to take the jumper off - but it was still early December. There would be plenty more opportunities to see it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dele’s wanted to kiss Eric since Russia, and every time he tries, something gets in the way. In December, he decides enough is enough. Day 7 tomorrow you guys! 
> 
> Thanks as always for all the love on this. You guys are so so so great xxx


	7. 7. Eric Dier & Dele

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something stupid - Robbie Williams and Nicole Kidman (is this a Christmas song? I’ve always associated it as being one. Oh well)

1 . 

When they were knocked out of the World Cup, Dele decided he wanted to throw caution to the wind and kiss Eric Dier. 

He had nothing more to lose, basically, and figured that if he was going down in burning flames he might as well risk total combustion and maybe get something good out of it. 

He’d wanted to kiss Eric since he’d first met him. He’d wanted to kiss him since he’d laid eyes on him with that floppy Disney prince blonde hair, since he’d first seen him without a shirt, since he’d first cracked through Eric’s walls and made him laugh. 

He’d wanted to kiss Eric for a long time, but he knew that wasn’t what they did. They weren’t gay, per se - Dele’s policy was ‘you never know who you’ll meet’, and he’d never discussed it with Eric - but he was pretty sure they weren’t going to fall onto each other’s dicks any time soon. He put the desire to kiss Eric from his mind for the most part, only allowing it to pop up when he was having a quick wank or daydreaming from an airplane window. 

Losing in Russia, though, all of that didn’t matter. Dele felt as low as he ever had in his life, and the way he saw it, a rejection from Eric wouldn’t make him feel any worse, but getting a kiss could only make him feel better. 

He steeled himself the whole way back to the hotel from the stadium, running over and over it in his head - he’d go to Eric’s room tonight and console him, give him a hug on the bed. He’d go to kiss his cheek but it’d be perilously close to his lips. It’d be clear what he wanted. 

He unloaded from the bus without even looking back at Eric, scared he’d try it right then and there. Dele took the stairs to his room rather than the lift, not wanting to be crammed in beside the other guys and with plenty of energy to burn off anyway. He fell into his room with his heart hammering, though from the stairs or his kiss mission, he couldn’t tell. He took a long shower. The water wouldn’t get warm enough but still he persevered, going over and over and over his plan in his head. 

He dressed in comfy clothes, clothes he knew Eric liked the feel of; would want close to his own skin. He stared at himself in the mirror for so long his face started to distort. He checked his watch but it was early still, Eric probably hadn’t even showered yet, lazy as he was. Dele took to pacing up and down his hotel room like a caged lion. 

Eventually, when he could wait no longer, he left. He walked up the corridor with his head down, palms tingling. His heart was racing. He took a fist and knocked at the door, the sound ringing out in the silence of the hall. He thought he was going to throw up, his stomach heaving. He knew when he saw Eric it’d be okay - he’d feel better. He’d be calm. He’d - 

Eric opened the door a slither, his face appearing in the crack. He looked irritated. “Um - yeah?” He asked. 

Dele frowned. “Hi? Are you - is this a bad time?” 

Eric looked sorry, he really did. He looked back into the room and then again at Dele. “Yeah, mate. I’ve got someone in the room. A girl.” 

Dele’s heart crashed. “Oh. Sorry. I’m sorry. Enjoy,” he said, turning around and walking back up the corridor with a lump in his throat. 

He had thought he couldn’t feel any worse, but it turned out he’d been wrong. 

2 . 

Dele didn’t think about kissing Eric for a while after that. It wasn’t until September, when they were training in London, that the idea reared its head once again. 

Dele had jumped into Eric’s arms in celebration of a particularly hilarious nutmeg and Eric had lifted him, hands firm and large under Dele’s thighs. Their faces were close, so close, too close - Dele’s throat constricted, the laughter extinguished from his chest. He looked down at Eric sincerely, and Eric looked up at him, and he thought - we’re about to kiss in front of everyone. 

The thought didn’t even scare him, funnily. It only excited him, only felt like a logical conclusion. He put a hand on Eric’s cheek and thought - my whole life’s been for this moment. It’s all been leading up to this moment. His eyes flickered down to Eric’s lips - 

And the next thing he knew the ground was coming at his face. He slammed into the grass hard, the wind pushed from his lungs painfully. He groaned and looked around, confused - Eric was lying next to him holding his arm and Sonny was to their left, laughing. He’d bowled into Eric’s legs and robbed them of the moment. 

Dele wanted to throttle him, and the entire universe for conspiring against him every chance it had. 

3 . 

After Eric clattered Ramos during England’s Spain fixture, Dele had never wanted to kiss him more. 

Dele had almost popped a boner on sight, his mouth hanging open. He wasn’t sure if he’d just dreamed it, or what - but it was the hottest thing he’d ever witnessed. He was at home with an injury and he kept pressing rewind on the TV, watching it again and again and again - he’d never seen anything sexier. 

He texted Eric saying ‘oh my god you fucking legend’. 

Eric didn’t text back because he was on the pitch, but later that night he sent back the sly face emoji and Dele screamed into his pillow. 

—

When the team were back in the UK, Dele invited Eric round to fill him in on the international break. 

He came round wearing a beanie pulled down low over his brow and a pair of shorts. Dele was soft when he saw him, thinking internally that them being apart was a big no no and when the day came that a club expressed interest in one of them and not the other his life would be over. 

He’d not even closed the door before he was saying “Ramos - what the fuck were you thinking?” 

Eric laughed and pulled his hat off, shrugged. “Dunno. Thought I’d apply pressure early, let them know we weren’t there to fuck about.” 

Dele stared at him and was, once again, overcome with the desire to kiss him. He was perfect, which was the problem: a whole perfect human being, a stunning feat of nature that made Dele’s head hurt. He wanted to know what he tasted like so badly; he wanted to be as close as he could be without completely climbing inside his skin and usurping his body. He never wanted another person to touch Eric ever again and he was sick with it, with the need to have him and love him. 

“Del?” Eric said, looking at Dele strangely. “What is it?” 

Dele didn’t realise he’d zoned out, and he shook himself back to reality, looking at Eric carefully. He had to kiss him. He had to kiss him now. 

“Eric,” he breathed, stepping forward. 

At that moment Eric’s phone started ringing in his pocket. Dele paused, frozen, and Eric moved his hand to his trousers, a pained expression on his face. 

“Leave it,” Dele said carefully. 

Eric frowned. “Can’t. Might be - my mum said she’d phone me today, I can’t miss it - Give me a minute, Del, yeah?” 

Eric took the phone and answered it, saying “Hello, mum!” Sunnily. 

Dele put his head in his hands and breathed out through his fingers. His chest felt tight. 

4 . 

Beating Croatia in their Nations League final match and coming top of their group was utterly electrifying. 

It was like redemption, finally. It was like taking the hurt from the World Cup and not getting rid of it, exactly, but giving the finger to it. It was saying “we aren’t shit” and “you aren’t better than us”. It was a moment of pride and talent, a moment of proof that England deserved their place as one of the top football teams in the world. 

The mood in the locker room was unbelievable. No one would put Jesse Lingard down, and Harry Kane was as happy as Dele had ever seen him. The general mood was jubilant pride, pride in themselves and each other. 

Dele looked over at Eric and felt his chest tighten again, the way it always did in moments like this. He looked at the twinkle in Eric’s eyes and the sheen of sweat on his neck. He wanted to lick it away, taste the salt on his tongue. He felt like he couldn’t breathe; wouldn’t ever breathe again if he didn’t get to have his mouth on Eric somewhere, anywhere. 

He crossed the floor like a man on a mission, his eyes on the sweeping planes of Eric’s shoulders. Eric saw him and straightened up, concern crossing his face. He always saw Dele in a crowd, Dele thought suddenly; Eric always knew where he was, knew what he needed. Dele had never wanted him more. 

He got to Eric and froze, close enough to see the pores on his face and unsure what it was he thought was going to happen in the locker room filled with people. Eric looked him over, assessing, checking he was okay - and then wrapped him in a hug, his hand sitting comfortingly on the back of Dele’s neck. 

Dele wanted to melt into him but he couldn’t loosen up; couldn’t shake the thought that he wanted more. He needed more; needed to have Eric properly. Having him this close, tantalisingly so, was torture. It was torture and Dele didn’t know how much longer he could take it. He stepped back and shook his head, trying in vain to make the thoughts in there order themselves. 

“Del? You alright?” 

Dele looked at Eric and tried to smile. “Can we - can we have a chat after this? I have to tell you something. I have to talk to you.” 

“Is everything okay? You’re scaring me.” 

“Yeah, no, of course. Everything’s fine. It’s totally fine.” 

Eric looked unsure but he let Dele walk away, watching him until he had disappeared into the showers. 

— 

When Dele left the locker room, Eric was waiting for him outside, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded and that same look of concern on his face. 

Dele’s chest was tight again. He smiled vaguely and motioned for Eric to follow him, his ears ringing with the magnitude of what he was about to do. They walked in silence, the air laden with tension. 

“Has something happened?” Eric said quietly. 

Dele looked at him and forced his face into a smile. “No, god. I’m sorry, I know I’m being - let’s just get in the car, yeah? I need to sit down.” 

Dele unlocked his car and they sat down, the noise of their cotton trousers against the leather of his seats the only sound. 

Eric turned his body to Dele and waited, expectant. Dele sighed, scratched his head, sucked at his teeth. He opened his mouth and closed it again, and then he turned in his seat to face Eric, leg bent up on the chair. 

“I’m really happy we won,” he said. 

Eric just looked at him. “Uh huh?” 

“Yeah. And I - well, it’s weird, but like - “ 

“Please spit it out, Del.” 

Dele looked at Eric with a pained expression, and then suddenly and without warning he sprang forward, hands reaching out for Eric’s shoulders. Eric reacted jerkily and put his hands out to stop Dele, causing their heads to connect painfully. 

Dele cried out in pain and Eric shoved him back, looking at him with wide eyes. “Have you lost your mind?!” He shouted, touching his forehead gingerly. “What the fuck did I do so wrong?!” 

Dele looked at Eric with eyes bigger than saucers. “What?!” He cried, holding his own bruised head. “What?!” 

“Talk to me, don’t try and attack me! Really, Del, a fucking head butt? I thought we were friends!” 

Dele stared at Eric in confusion, calculating what he’d just heard. His mouth fell open. “You - you think I just tried to head butt you?” 

“You didn’t just try, you fucking succeeded. You’re a right dick, sometimes, you know that?” 

“I - oh my god - “ 

“I’m going now, I’m going home. Text me tomorrow if you’re ready to air your grievances like a grown up. This is fucking pathetic, mate.” 

Dele watched as Eric got out of the car and slammed the door, stomping off through the car park. When Eric was no longer in his line of sight Dele slammed his hands into the steering wheel so hard the car alarm went off. 

5 . 

It had been three weeks since Dele’s last disastrous attempt to kiss Eric, and the tightness in his chest had only gotten worse. 

He’d sent Eric a text apologising the next day, blaming his ‘head butt’ on the tensions of the match and the energy pent up inside himself. Eric had said it was okay, he forgave him - but he should probably get laid and work that tension out. Dele almost said that’s what he had been trying to do, but in the end he just ignored it. They went on as if nothing had happened, but internally Dele was worse than ever. 

To make matters worse, the Christmas season had officially begun and love was everywhere. 

Wherever Dele looked there was couples and romance and affection and it was driving him crazy. He was allowing it to affect his relationship with Eric too; pulling back from him and internalising the torture he was going through. 

Eric was growing suspicious, commenting that Dele had been weird ever since their fight in the car and insisting that if something was bothering him he should say it. 

Dele was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when the thought occurred to him. The year was nearly over, and he wanted to leave this baggage in 2018 - he had to do it soon. He had to kiss Eric Dier once and for all; or at least make it known that he wanted to. He could deal with all the rest once the pain in his chest had been alleviated. 

It was now or never, he told himself, as he grabbed his car keys and slammed his front door closed. 

— 

Eric was making an omelette when the door went. 

He turned off the cooker and wiped his hands on a dish towel, frowning. He wasn’t expecting anyone and in the age of mobile phones, it was strange to have unsolicited callers. 

Eric padded barefoot out of the kitchen and down the hall, past the dogs sleeping in the living room (sometimes he wished he had proper guard dogs, honestly). He got to the door and peered through the little spy hole. He was surprised to see Dele standing here, arms folded against the London cold. 

Eric opened the door and was instantly met with a wave of icy air. 

“Del?” 

Dele took a deep breath and looked Eric in the eye. “Eric, I’ve - this has been a long time coming. I can’t bring it into 2019 with me, I just - here, I keep messing this up. This is what I mean.” 

He produced a sprig of mistletoe and held it up between them, over their heads. Eric looked at it dopily. 

“What are you doing with that mistletoe? Oh. OH.” 

Dele bounced on his toes, looking at Eric with heavy eyes. He wasn’t sure what has possessed him to think this was a good idea. Fucking terrible, actually, totally stupid - 

Eric leaned in and kissed him, gently, on the lips. 

Dele felt the tightness in his chest blow out of him like air from a balloon. He fell forward, into Eric’s warmth, letting the kiss breathe life into his body. It was more than he’d imagined; it was soft and light and calm. It was silence after a blaring siren. If he never had anything again for the rest of his life it didn’t matter, wouldn’t matter - he could be fired from spurs, he could be made homeless, he could lose everything - and he wouldn’t care because he’d kissed Eric Dier and he knew how his tongue tasted and that he was a lip biter and used varying pressure and was a hands on hips man. 

Somehow, Dele would never be totally sure how, he ended up in Eric’s arms with his legs wrapped around his waist. It was all very Notebook but Dele didn’t complain, not even for a second, not with those big hands under him. Eric kicked the door shut and carried Dele into the house, still kissing all the while, the mistletoe abandoned on the doorstep. 

He carried him into the living room and sat down carefully on the sofa, making sure Dele’s legs weren’t bent. They kissed thirstily, like they’d been deprived for a long time. Eric ran his hands up and down Dele’s back and then, eventually, brought them to his face, moving him back so he could take a look at him. Both of them had heaving chests. Eric scanned Dele’s face, taken by surprise, lips wet with saliva. 

“What - where - “ 

“Wanted to do that for so long,” Dele gasped, eyes never leaving Eric’s lips. “Oh my god. Oh my god, that feels so good to have done. You don’t understand.” 

“Why didn’t you - I’m so confused,” Eric said, and was cut off by Dele leaning in again, kissing the words out of his mouth. 

Eric prised him back gently. “No, hold on. I want to do that too, but - where has this come from? I want to understand.” 

Dele looked pained, like talking was a waste of his time, but he tried to be patient. “I’ve been trying to kiss you since Russia. Since Croatia. You were with some girl. That thing, in the car - “ 

“Oh my god - that was supposed to be a kiss?” 

“Yeah, it was, and I fucked it. I keep fucking it.” 

“Christ,” Eric breathed, leaning up and pressing his lips to Dele’s again. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Dele said. “It doesn’t matter. Here now.” 

They kissed and kissed until the minutes bled into god knows how long. They stopped at one point and Eric went to eat his omelette, because the sound of his stomach rumbling not particularly sexy. Dele watched him eat and was abnormally jealous of the egg rolling around inside his mouth, but when he was done his attention was fully and wholly on Dele and it was like every star in the universe had lined up perfectly to bring them to this moment. 

That was bullshit, of course. It was down to Dele and a bit of fake mistletoe from BnM. But that didn’t matter, in the end. 

Dele got what he wanted. It was nothing short of a Christmas miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow - Jordan isn’t letting John spend the holidays alone.


	8. 8. Jordan Pickford & John Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Driving home for Christmas - Chris Rea 
> 
> This is not bde stonesford - heads up!

John was going to spend Christmas on his own. 

It was fine, though - he wasn’t massively sad about it. His family were going on a Caribbean cruise, was the problem, and he had a game scheduled for the 26th December. His mum cried when she realised and insisted on cancelling the trip but he told her not to be silly, said they should enjoy themselves, they’d make up for it with a Christmas of their own once she was home. 

She was reluctant about it even to the minute John dropped them off at the airport, crying and complaining that she was “a terrible mother.” 

“I’m 24, you dafty!” He admonished, sending her off with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on his dad’s back. “I’m going to be fine!” 

Only, when he was back in the car and driving home, he felt a little bit sad. He’d never admit it but he was gutted he’d not get a roast on Christmas Day, sad he wouldn’t see his mum’s face as she opened her presents. He tapped at the console in his car’s dash board and phoned Kyle, biting his nail as he waited for him to pick up. 

“Alright?” Kyle answered eventually, the unmistakeable sound of screaming kids in the background. 

“S’appnin?” John said, indicating left round a roundabout. 

“Trying to bath the kids. What you up to?” 

“Just driving home now. Dropped my mum and dad at the airport.” 

“Oh right. Where they going again?” 

“One of those cruises. They’re leaving from Florida.” 

“Nice.” 

“Yeah... I was actually just phoning to ask, like, feel free to say no - but what you doing on Christmas Day? Wouldn’t have room for one more by any chance?” 

Kyle was silent for a second too long and John grimaced. “Oh mate - you know I would in a heart beat, but we’re going to Annie’s mum’s and it’s going to be crazy with all her sisters - “ 

“Of course, no, don’t worry about it - “ 

“I’m so sorry, mate, I feel terrible - what about your Auntie? She around?” 

“Honestly don’t fret. Yeah, I’ll phone up me Auntie. I just thought I’d ask, but it’s really no bother.” 

“Alright, mate. Let me know if you can’t get a hold of her, I’ll talk to Annie’s mum or something. Okay?” 

“Yeah chief, course. Alright, I’ll let you get back to the bath.” 

“Right, thanks. Catch you later, bud.” 

John hung up and sighed. He wasn’t going to his Aunt’s because she was doing some weirdo church volunteering thing on Christmas and he didn’t feel like being preached at on Christmas Day, but he wouldn’t tell Kyle that. 

Whatever, it wasn’t the end of the world. He’d have a beer and a chippy and watch The Muppets Christmas Carol, or something. It was going to be fine. 

— 

John was at work, stretching off after a physio session, when the social media people cornered him on Instagram live. 

He always got so awkward when they shoved a camera in his face, shut down a bit. He smiled and waved at the screen of the iphone, looking apprehensively at the girl holding it. 

“John Stones!” She said exaggeratedly, acting like a kids tv presenter. “Look who it is!” 

“Hiya,” John said. “How’s it going?” 

“Are you ready for City v Palace on Saturday?” 

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. Looking forward to getting out on the pitch.” 

“It’s three days before Christmas, John - what are your Christmas plans?” 

“Well - my family’s on holiday this year so I’ll be on my own, prepping for Leicester this year I think.” 

“Oh no! Christmas Day on your own, John?!” 

John laughed self deprecatingly. “It’s no big deal, honestly! I’m excited for the peace and quiet,” he smiled. 

“Alright, well - we’ll let you get off then,” the woman said, looking back into the camera. “Come on you lot - let’s see who else we can find,” she said, tearing off in another direction. 

John was changing his shoes when his phone buzzed with a text. He glanced at it and then frowned, looking closer - it was a text from an unsaved number. He unlocked his phone and read the text, frowning. 

‘Was just watching that live on insta n saw you’ve not got plans for crimbo - ur not spending the holidays alone! You can come to mine my mam would love to see you’ 

‘Who’s this?’ John sent back, praying a mad fan didn’t somehow have his number. The answer came quickly, and John suddenly wished it had been a crazy fan. It was Jordan Pickford, of all people, and John groaned. Pickford was fine but he didn’t want to spend Christmas with him for Christ sake - John typed out his reply hastily. 

‘Aw hiya mate honestly no it’s fine but thanks for the offer!’ 

Jordan, however, was having none of it. ‘Don’t talk pish I’ll come and pick you up the day before Christmas Eve and I’ll drop you back off on Boxing Day iv got a game too so will be on the road anyway’ 

John looked up to the sky and groaned. How could be say no when Jordan was being so nice, going out of his way to invite John to his bloody Christmas? John cursed the Instagram team at City and typed out ‘if ur sure, alright, cheers Jordan.’ 

— 

Jordan picked up John at his house at 6pm on the 23rd of December, coming to a screeching halt with a blare of thumping base spilling from the car. 

John was stood on the curb with his bags beside him, tucked up inside his coat but still freezing. He grabbed his bags and opened the boot of the car, placing them in carefully. He’d dashed out and bought Christmas presents for Jordan’s family, going with generic items - a watch for his dad, a bag for his mother, fuck all for Jordan - that he was sure they’d appreciate. 

He closed the boot and got into the car beside Jordan, smiling tightly. “Happening?” He said, warming his hands on the hot air blasting from the dash board. 

“Merry Christmas, Stonesy!” Jordan said cheerily, driving off down the street. “How’s it going?” 

“You know, same old. Thanks for this,  
Jordan. Really appreciate it. Very kind of you and your family.” 

“Oh not at all,” Jordan said with a wave of his hand. “Me mam loves you. She’d be raging if she knew you were on your own and I didn’t offer.” 

“My mum’s really grateful, like. She was having kittens thinking of me on my own, bless her.” 

“No wonder, no one should be on their own on Christmas. Who you playing on Boxing Day?” 

They started off on a conversation about their post - Christmas games, about how the league had been going so far. It wasn’t that John didn’t like Pickford, per se, it was just that they were different. John rarely spent much time with him off the pitch but whenever they were together they laughed a lot, which John always seemed to forget. 

Jordan passed John the aux cord somewhere on the motorway and John took the liberty of playing Driving Home For Christmas by Chris Rea, laughing till his stomach hurt at Jordan trying to sing with a husky voice. He knew all the words to the song, which surprised John, and he watched him sing with his knees tucked up to his chest, his shoes discarded in the footwell. 

John found himself staring at Jordan’s hands on the steering wheel at one point and imagining what they’d look like around a penis and he had to drag his eyes away and mentally slap himself, trying to remember that he was not here to flirt, fantasise about or fuck Jordan Pickford. 

The car journey went by fairly quickly, all things considered, and Jordan was pulling up to his mum’s drive with the familiarity of someone who’s done it a million times before. John stretched out his legs and yawned. “Is the ground wet? Can’t be bothered putting my shoes back on,” he groused, flexing his socked toes. 

“Want me to carry you?” Jordan said nonchalantly. 

John raised his eyebrows. “You’re making me suspicious, Pickford. Why you being so nice?” 

Jordan laughed. “Christmas, isn’t it. Here, I’ll piggie back you,” he said, nipping round and opening John’s door. 

John climbed onto Jordan’s broad back and wrapped his legs around his waist, his shoes in his hands. “Giddyup!” John joked, kicking his heels into Jordan’s kidneys. 

“Don’t push your luck,” Jordan said firmly, carrying John across the front garden and putting him down on the doorstep. “Hold on, I’ll get the bags.” 

Jordan jogged to the car and opened the boot, picking out his own things and John’s too. He locked the car and carried the stuff over, passing John his bags and putting his key into the front door. 

It was warm inside and smelled of cooking; John was guessing a cottage pie or something with mince in it. He shuffled in nervously, looking at Jordan for guidance. He’d met the Pickfords before, at the World Cup and stuff, and they were lovely people - but it was still nerve wracking entering someone’s home at Christmas and intruding on their family time. 

Jordan’s mum Susan came bustling around the corner after Jordan called out greetings, wearing a Christmas jumper and smiling broadly. 

“Hiya Jordan, son!” She exclaimed, reaching up and grabbing him by the cheeks. “Oh it’s good to see you, good to see you.” She let go of her son and turned to John, enveloping him in a bear hug. “And John, it’s lovely to see you too, of course.” 

“Susan,” John said, hugging her tight. “Thank you so much for having me, honestly - you’ve made my mum so happy.” 

“Nonsense, no need to thank me. I’d hate the thought of Jordan on his own over the festive period. Come on boys, are you hungry? Your dad’s got beer in the outside fridge, Jordan, help yourselves...” She was off then, back into the house, ever busy. 

John and Jordan exchanged a fond expression and Jordan lead the way through the living room and into the kitchen, where his dad was stirring something over the stove. 

“Alright, dad?” Jordan said, patting his Dad on the shoulder. 

“How you doing, Jordan? John! Nice to see you, buddy.” 

“You too, Lee. I was saying to Susan, I’m so grateful to yous for having me. It’s much appreciated.” 

“Of course, lad. There’s beer out in the garage, Jordan, do you want to get a couple in?” 

Jordan did, leaving John to chat to his parents. Mothers always loved John and he conversed happily, asking Susan at length about her job and the local town gossip. 

They ate together at the kitchen table - dinner turned out to be lasagna - and afterwards Jordan and John took their bags to Jordan’s room, where Susan had set up an air mattress on Jordan’s floor. Jordan’s bed had Sunderland FC sheets on it and John snorted at them, earning himself a shove from Jordan. 

For a fleeting second John resented that he’d have to sleep on a fucking air mattress rather than his own bed, but he pushed the thought away, trying not to be ungrateful. They lay down on their beds and were quiet for a bit, both on their phones. 

“Me mam’s just text that she’s got a cheeseboard downstairs,” Jordan said after a while. “If you want some.” 

John sat up and smiled. “Yeah, I’d love it. C’mon then.” 

They went to bed that night slightly buzzed and with full, heavy stomachs. They’d brushed their teeth in the bathroom side by side, sniggering at nothing and looking at each other silently. John lay awake for a little while listening to Jordan’s breathing and felt the weirdest desire to climb in beside him. He fell asleep before he could work up the courage to do it. 

— 

On Christmas Eve they woke up late, and Jordan took John to the gym. They worked out for two hours and then went into town for breakfast. Back at home John helped Jordan’s mum to fold towels and bed sheets - his own mum had taught him well - and Jordan talked politics with his dad on the couch. 

Later that evening Jordan would be going out with friends for drinks as per their tradition dating back to them being 17 at school, and John was invited. They showered and got dressed and Jordan’s friend Chris picked them up, bantering with Jordan so quickly John couldn’t work out a word they were saying. 

Chris was nice and only gave John a little bit of a ribbing for playing for City. They arrived at the pub and All I Want For Christmas was playing, which made John smile. The place was warm and cosy and full of Jordan’s school friends, who all made a concerted effort to make John feel included. 

The night passed in a blur of Christmas songs, games of pool and pints of Amstel. Jordan dragged John away at 2am, drunk as a skunk and challenging someone in the bar to a sing off. “C’mon, Stonesy, we’re up early tomorrow,” he said, his arm around John’s shoulders. “You’re going to be so hungover tomorrow.” 

“Fuck it,” John slurred, leaning into Jordan’s side. “S’Christmas.” 

The taxi dropped them off at Jordan’s and John paid, tipping sixty quid because he was drunk and it was Christmas and he was rich. Jordan told him to be quiet as he unlocked the door and John tried, he did, but he tripped over the carpet on his way in and fell in a loud heap on the floor, groaning audibly. 

“Shhh!” Jordan hissed, pulling John up like a marionette doll. “John!” 

They tiptoed through the living room, past the tree with the presents underneath. “Santa’s been!” John stage whispered, and Jordan ignored him. 

Jordan got them both a glass of water and they carried them upstairs, feeling their way in the dark. They undressed in the bedroom quietly, John spilling all the change from his pockets when he took his jeans off. 

He flopped down on the air mattress heavily and Jordan climbed into his own bed with a satisfied sigh, yawning. “Night, Stones,” he said. “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas, Picks,” John answered, staring up at the ceiling. And then, before he could think better of it - “You ever have sex in here?” 

Jordan was silent. “What?” 

“Just wondered if the Sunderland sheets work for you. Might need to get a pair myself.” 

“Shut up. Course they work. Course I’ve shagged in here.” 

John laughed to himself, thinking of what he’d say next, then asked “Did you and your mates ever wank each other off?” 

“What the fuck - no,” Jordan said, sitting up and leaning on an arm. “Why, did you?” 

“No,” John answered, not laughing anymore. “That would be weird.” 

“Why did you - “ 

“Dunno,” John said quickly. “Just wondered.” 

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Eventually Jordan said “Well, sleep well,” and turned over in bed. 

Once again, John lay awake for the longest time. 

— 

John was still drunk when they woke up the next morning. 

Susan made sausage sandwiches and cups of tea for the boys as they gathered on the sofas, John smiling bleary eyed at the Pickfords and hoping he didn’t smell too strongly of alcohol. 

“Good night, boys?” Lee asked, and Jordan snorted. 

“John had a cracker. Can’t keep up with the big boys,” he teased, and John rolled his eyes. 

“Ha ha ha. Thanks for the sandwich, Susan.” 

They started opening presents next. There was a little pile for Jordan and more for his parents, and, to John’s surprise and embarrassment, there were even a few for him. He gave the presents he’d bought to Susan and Lee with a hug, thanking them again for their hospitality. They’d bought him socks, which was always useful, a leather bound 2019 planner, a bottle of Scottish whiskey and a ten pound heavy bag of wine gums. His heart swelled and he thanked them profusely. 

After presents, John went off to FaceTime his family on his cruise, and then he showered and dressed. Jordan’s aunties and uncles were coming round for lunch and John helped prepare where he could, stirring pots and shaking Brussels sprouts. 

The dinner was great and they were all stuffed and wearing paper party hats, moving to the living room to play charades. Everyone was steadily growing drunker other than Jordan and John, who were working the next day, and they used their sobriety to win charades. 

After the game it was drinking and chatting followed by dessert. Jordan’s extended family left around 10pm and the Pickfords sat down on the sofas and watched Home Alone on ITV. John kept stealing glances at Jordan, smiling at the way he was with his family. It had been a lovely Christmas and he was glad he’d been invited, in the end. 

They went to bed once the movie was over, warm and happy and full of Christmas cheer. They undressed and Jordan set an alarm for the following morning as he lay in bed, John lying happily below him on the air mattress. He was about to turn off the light and then paused, looking down at John. 

“John?” He whispered. 

John looked up. “Yeah?” 

“Are you cold down there?” 

“What? No, I’m - oh. Yeah I am, actually. Didn’t want to say anything.” 

“I thought you might be. Do you want to - I could get more sheets but they’re in the airing cupboard in me mam’s room. Get in here if you want.” 

John looked at him for a suspended second, trying to work out if he was serious, and then he was climbing up and into Jordan’s Sunderland clad bed, the springs squeaking a bit under his weight. They lay on their backs side by side staring at the ceiling, saying nothing for a bit. 

“Know what I said last night, about wanking off your mates?” 

Jordan swallowed. “Yeah?” 

“It’s a rite of passage I think. Everyone should do it once.” 

Jordan moved his head to face John and John mirrored him and they looked at each other for a few frozen seconds, on the precipice of whatever this was. Without thinking too much about it Jordan leaned in and kissed John softly on the lips, once, twice. 

“Kissing isn’t normally part of it,” John murmured against Jordan’s lips, and Jordan shrank back, embarrassed. “But let’s do it anyway,” John said quickly, scared he’d ruined the moment. “It’s fine with me.” 

They kissed a while longer, both into it, both hungry for it. Jordan brought a hand to John’s face and slipped his tongue into his mouth, licking passionately. John ran his fingers down Jordan’s torso, across his belly, and brushed them over his pants, an erection already waiting for him. It was hot that just kissing alone had turned Jordan on so much and John reached into his pants confidently, wrapping his hand around like he owned it. 

They continued kissing whilst John moved his hand in a slow rhythm, Jordan’s lips slowing as his attention was diverted. After a bit he seemed to remember where he was and his hand shot down to find John’s dick, almost apologetic that he’d forgotten about it for a few seconds. Jordan matched John’s rhythm and they went at it, no longer kissing but just blowing carbon dioxide into each other’s mouths. John came first and Jordan was close behind, biting down on his lip to keep quiet. 

They didn’t move afterwards, both of their ears ringing. John got up eventually and used a towel on the back of Jordan’s door to wipe off, throwing it over to him when he was done. He lay back down beside Jordan and pulled the duvet up to his neck, sleepy. 

“Night, Picks,” he said quietly. “That was my present by the way. To you. Merry Christmas.” 

“Oh. Thanks, I suppose.” 

“You’re welcome. Night, then.” 

“Night, John.” 

— 

The alarm went off at the arse crack of dawn and John was embarrassed to find that he was pressed along Jordan’s body, hard against the small of his back and dribbling slightly onto the tip of his spine. 

Jordan groaned and stretched like a cat, fumbling for his phone to make the noise stop. John carefully rolled away, hoping Jordan hadn’t felt that, and got out of bed, reaching for the clothes he’d laid out the night before and stumbling towards the bathroom. 

It wasn’t exactly awkward in the car as Jordan drove up the empty motorway, but it was quiet, comfortable. Jordan wasn’t much of a morning person and John knew him well enough to know that, so he left him alone, looking out the windscreen silently. 

When they got into Manchester Jordan spoke. 

“Last night - don’t tell anyone, will you? Like Walker or that.” 

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” 

“Just checking,” Jordan grumbled, pulling up to the staff entrance of the Etihad. “Have a good day, mate. I’ll see you in the New Year.” 

John looked at Jordan. “Thank you, Jord. For everything. Really appreciate it.” 

Jordan smiled, and John smiled back. Then John looked around out the windows, checking they were alone, and he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the edge of Jordan’s mouth. 

Jordan moved his head an inch to take his lips properly, kissing him on the mouth obscenely gently. 

“See you in the new year,” John mumbled, forehead tipping against Jordan’s for a second. 

Then he was getting out of the car, stepping into the cold. He gathered his bags and waved one last time, watching as Jordan drove off round the corner and disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow - you get dragged to a Christmas football shirt party and find yourself under the mistletoe with one Jesse Lingard. My first ever reader X - go easy on me!


	9. 9. Reader X Jesse Lingard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mistletoe - Justin Bieber 
> 
> From a very specific request from my lovely friend - you, a Liverpool supporter, find yourself under the mistletoe with Jesse Lingard. Dilemmas, dilemmas 
> 
> (Go easy on me, this isn’t my usual jam)

You’d been looking forward to the ‘Christmas house party of the year’ since Halloween, and the day was finally here. 

It was the party of a friend of a friend, billed as some sort of “project X with jingle bells”. The lad who’s house it was, Thomas somebody, lived in Manchester and apparently had some kind of job in football. The dress code had been ‘football colours encouraged’ and you’d scoffed at it, asking if Thomas was 12 or 22. 

Still, you’d dug out your old Liverpool shirt and stuck it on with some skinny black jeans, tucking it in to allow for a bit of shape. You were at your best friend Jen’s house, getting ready, Christmas music thumping from her speakers. She was wearing a Man City shirt she’d borrowed from her brother with some random dude’s name on it - Stones, or something - and she was getting increasingly frustrated that her eyelashes wouldn’t go on properly. 

“Fuck it! I’m not going!” She shouted, throwing the tube of glue across the room. “This is a disaster!” 

You took a mouthful of wine and went to fetch the glue, rolling your eyes. She was always so dramatic, honestly - you climbed on the bed beside her and took the lash from her hand, glueing down the band again and sticking it carefully to her upper lashes. 

“You’re so good at that,” she muttered, sighing. 

You grinned. “I know. Steady hands.” 

— 

You finished your drinks just in time for the taxi to arrive, shouting a quick goodbye to Jen’s parents and darting outside into the cold night air. You’d both opted not to wear jackets and that felt silly suddenly, as cold as it was. The car was warm though and Jen gave the driver the address, the car heading off up the road. 

“So - who does the guy work for? Thomas?” You asked, watching as Jen checked how many likes her selfie had on Instagram. 

“United. He does public relations or something for them.” 

Both you and Jen had football teams that you supported but neither were particularly huge on football. You knew what the offside rule was and kept an eye on the league tables but you didn’t give a fuck about teams like Man United and who worked or played for them. You hoped the conversation wouldn’t revolve around the sport all night, but you’d be able to hold your own if it did. 

The car pulled up at the house and you raised your eyebrows. People were spilling out of the place, drunk and lairy and all covered in bits of tinsel. You looked at Jen and snorted. “Project X indeed,” you joked, both pulling out a fiver to pay the driver. 

Everyone that you could see was wearing football shirts, though there were no other Liverpool ones. Fuck it, you thought. So everyone at the party had bad taste? Too bad. 

Jen pulled you into the kitchen and poured you both drinks - her vodka measures were deadly and you winced at the taste of yours, hoping it would go down quickly. Jen spotted her friend Matthew and pulled you across the kitchen to meet him. He hugged you both, snorting at your Liverpool shirt, and smiled warmly at Jen. 

“Jen! How’s it going?” 

Jen started talking about uni and ranting about her sociology professor, insisting that the guy was a psychopath without an inch of human compassion on his body. You let them talk, glancing around the room and looking at the guests. There were a lot of people in Manchester United tops, which made you want to gag. 

A couple of minutes later a guy walked in, and everyone cheered at him, clamouring to pat him on the back. He held his hands up modestly and poured himself a drink, stopping for a selfie with some girl. When he was on his way out someone shouted “Love you, Rashford!” 

You turned to Jen. “Who was that?” 

“Marcus Rashford,” Jen said under her breath. “Plays for United.” 

You raised your brows. “Football players are here?” 

“Obviously,” laughed Matthew. “Thomas works with them. No one in Manchester would miss this party.” 

“Wow,” you said, draining your cup. “Impressive.” 

— 

The party was loud and sweaty, the house packed with people. After an hour you still hadn’t met the illusive Thomas and hadn’t seen anymore supposed footballers, although you had gotten into a debate outside the downstairs bathroom about Gerard vs Beckham and that was about as exciting as it had got. 

You were tipsy drunk, Jen’s concoctions having worked their magic, and at some stage you got split up from her, wandering around the party chatting to people on your own. There was a beer pong competition in the dining room that you watched for a bit and then joined in on. 

You were secretly very good at it and took everyone by surprise, your partner Chris and you winning the tournament by a clear mile. You high fived and hugged and he looked at you closely, like seeing you in a new light. 

“Want to grab a drink?” He asked, and you nodded. 

“Could do.” 

He was wearing a Chelsea shirt and the colour of it made his eyes stand out, which caused your heart to flutter. He took you by the hand to the kitchen and you squeezed through the crowd together, sticking close to one another. 

In the kitchen he grabbed two fresh plastic cups and asked what you were drinking. You told him vodka and he poured one out for you, a much more sensible measure than Jen was known for. 

“Cheers,” he said, winking at you and tipping the edge of his cup to yours. “To new friends.” 

“To new friends,” you smiled, taking a drink and savouring the way the heat ran down your throat. 

“What do you do, then?” He asked, leaning back against the counter top. 

“Vet med at uni,” you answered nonchalantly. “Why my hand is so steady. Needs to be good for getting drips and needles and stuff in. Makes me very good at beer pong.” 

He grinned. “Wow, brains and beauty. The Liverpool thing we can overlook,” he teased, and you raised a brow challengingly. 

“Yeah? Like Chelsea’s any better?” 

You started bantering each other, flirting heavily. He kept touching you, on the forearm and the shoulder and once on the hair, and you knew he was interested and that you could probably go home with him later. He was cute, kind - you could definitely do worse. Plus it was Christmas, and everyone deserved a bit of action around the holidays. 

The kitchen started to get overly crowded after a while and he lead you into the living room, away from the people fighting for any remaining alcohol. It was busy in the room but not too busy, and you found a little corner in the doorway to chat some more. 

Chris had to go to the bathroom eventually - he complained that he had a terrible bladder when he’d been drinking - and he dashed off, disappearing through the bodies. 

You pulled your phone out of your back pocket and looked at the notifications - a text from Jen saying she was upstairs with Matthew, a couple of Instagram bits. You were scrolling through there, quietly minding your own business, when a voice behind you said “That’s a bold top to wear to a party like this.” 

You looked up, irritated, and turned around, ready to argue. You were met by a guy of medium height with a cheeky face, smooth dark skin, a shock of dark curls on his head. There was a pathetic attempt at a beard on his chin, which you huffed out a laugh at. He was wearing a pink Man United top. You looked him up and down, slowly, one eyebrow raised. 

“Yeah? That’s a bold top to wear... anywhere.” 

You saw his eyes flash, though with anger or annoyance or because he was impressed, you weren’t sure. You put your phone away and folded your arms, ready to take this guy to task. 

“Big talk for a little woman. You get that top from your dad?” 

A couple of bystanders ooed softly, and you rolled your eyes. 

“No, it’s mine. I was brought up supporting Liverpool. What’s your excuse for that monstrosity, did you mug a 12 year old girl?” 

The bystanders ooed louder. His mouth tilted in a half grin, and he looked you up and down this time, taking you in properly. 

“Good one.” 

“I mean really,” you continued, feeling strengthened by the alcohol in your system. “Who the fuck would buy that? Who would actually put money over a counter and buy that top you’re wearing right now?” 

He lowered an eyebrow. “I didn’t buy this, babe.” 

“Stole it then. Who would steal a pink United top? And I’m not your babe.” 

He turned around then, showing you the back of his shirt. It said ‘LINGARD 14’. He looked over his shoulder at you and waited, expectant. 

You shrugged. “And?” 

He laughed, turning around, amused now. “No way. You don’t know who I am?” 

“Don’t care who you are. You’re cheeky as fuck and you’re wearing a terrible stolen top.” 

“I didn’t steal the top, sweetheart. Man United had it made for me to wear. When I play for them. I’m Jesse Lingard. Earth to stupid?” 

You licked your lips, thinking of a comeback. As far as faux pas went this was pretty high up there, but you’d never back down and admit that. 

“I don’t make a point of learning who plays for a mid table club like Man United. Win some trophies and we’ll talk.” 

“Who actually are you?” He said, taking a step closer. “Where did you come from?” 

“None of your business,” you said, standing your ground. “I’d ask where you came from, but it can’t be anything incredible if you’re stuck playing for United now.” 

He opened his mouth to retaliate and closed it again, his eyes shining. You couldn’t help the smirk on your face, enjoying this little bicker. That’s when someone, some random to your left, shouted it - 

“You’re both under the mistletoe, so stop stalling and just kiss!” 

You and Jesse both looked up instantly and there, indeed, was a sprig of mistletoe, taped to the doorframe. You looked at him, frozen. There was no denying he was hot, that was for sure, and you’d always had a thing for dick heads. He looked back at you, apprehensive. The rules of mistletoe had spoken however and you took the bull by the horns, reaching up onto your tiptoes and pulling his lips down to yours. 

The whole room disappeared when your lips made contact. He put an arm around your waist and pulled you close, kissing you softly - he was good at it, very good; too good. Your whole body was tingling, feeling the magic of the moment. He opened his mouth and you opened yours and your tongues met, the best mix of sexy and soft and sweet - 

And then, suddenly, Jesse’s mouth was gone. Your eyes opened and you were just in time to witness Chris pulling Jesse back by the shirt, all guns blazing. 

“Fuck off! I’ve been grafting her all night!” Chris bellowed at Jesse, enraged. 

You opened your mouth to argue - you didn’t belong to anyone, especially not someone you’d just met - but Jesse got there first, taking the words right out of your mouth. 

“Piss off, hard man. She can kiss who she wants. And take your fucking hands off me - “ he shoved Chris by the shoulders, causing him to stumble back. 

The room had fallen silent, people moving away from the drama. 

“Fuck off, you twat,” Chris spat. 

“Hey!” You hissed, moving between them. “That’s enough! Chris, you’ve had too much to drink. You should go.” 

“You heard her,” Jesse said. “She’s not interested. Do one.” 

Chris lunged for Jesse then, shoving you out the way. You screamed and tried to jump into the fight but were held back by some guy, telling you not to get involved. You watched in horror as the men wrestled around on the floor, wishing, suddenly, that Jesse would be okay. 

Somehow, despite the difference in their heights, Jesse got the better of Chris. He pinned him, not even having broken a sweat - clearly not as drunk as Chris and twice as fit. 

“That’s enough,” Jesse hissed in his face. “You’re out of here.” 

Someone - a friend of Jesse’s you’d guess - came in and helped to haul Chris to his feet. You watched as he and Jesse dragged him to the door, presumably getting rid of him. 

You didn’t realise you were shaking until a girl came over and put her arm around you, talking in a calming voice. “Are you okay, love? Are you alright?” 

You must’ve been in shock because it was like she was talking to you from underwater. You looked around, wishing Jen was here, feeling overwhelmed. Then Jesse was back, pushing the girl away and wrapping his arms around you, and you were crying, crying into his pink shirt. 

“Nothing to see, guys,” you heard him say as he rubbed rhythms up and down your back. “Hey, don’t cry. It’s okay. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” 

You pulled back and wiped at your eyes, embarrassed. “No, I’m - I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m overwhelmed. That was scary.” 

“Come with me,” he said, taking you by the hand. 

You went to the stairs together, squeezing past people who all wanted to talk to Jesse. He ignored them, completely focussed on you, his hand around yours tightly. He pushed open a door on the second floor and it was quiet and peaceful inside. It looked like a spare bedroom, completely impersonal, and he told you to wait there whilst he fetched tissues. 

You did, checking your face in the dresser mirror. When he came back you’d stopped crying and used the tissues to dab at your under eyes, wiping away mascara. He was sat on the bed watching you intently. 

“I’m sorry, about all that. That guy was a dick head, man. But - so was I. Before that. With the shirt - “ 

“It was banter,” you said, sitting next to him. “You don’t need to apologise.” 

He looked at you for another second, reaching out and tucking hair behind your ear. “I’d take you one time, if you wanted.” 

“Take me where?” 

He smiled. “To a Liverpool game. If you wanted. Hospitality box and that, no half measures.” 

Your heart thumped excitedly. “Yeah? You sure you won’t get mobbed?” 

“You’ve seen me in action. Can handle myself, can’t I?” 

You laughed, looking at his lips. He leaned in slowly and you were kissing again, and it was better this time, more private. His hands were at your waist and he pulled you into his lap, where you straddled his thighs. Things were heating up, fast, and you were about to move them along - when the door burst open. 

“OH MY GOD! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? JESSE LINGARD’S BEEN SCRAPPING DOWNSTAIRS AND YOU MISSED IT - oh fuck,” Jen hissed, looking at the pair of you. “Fuck, sorry - shit, sorry, pretend you didn’t see me,” she stammered, closing the door behind her. 

You and Jesse looked at each other and sniggered. “Dafty. I wouldn’t have known who she was talking about anyway.” 

Jesse laughed, a genuine and warm laugh. It made your heart purr. Then he was kissing you again, and there was no room to think about anything else in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 10 - John makes Jordan wear a Santa hat. And fucks him in it.


	10. 10. Jordan Pickford & John Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Santa Tell Me - Ariana Grande

John was eating lunch at the City training grounds with his earphones in when the topic came to his attention. 

Delph was the one who found it. He was lauding it around like a teenage boy, waving the phone back and forth in front of people’s plates. 

“Santa porn! Fucking Santa porn!” He was shouting, manic. 

John took one of his earbuds out and listened in, smirking around his mouthfull of chicken. Kyle was next to him and he shook his head in disgust, rolling his eyes at John. 

“Fucking hell, mate, I’m trying to eat,” Kyle moaned, mouth full of food. “Can you not show porn at the table?” 

“Look how fucking funny it is though!” Delph insisted, thrusting the phone at John and Kyle. “He says ho ho ho when he comes!” 

“That’s enough,” Kompany called from the table behind them, unimpressed. “Behave yourselves.” 

“Oh lighten up,” Delph said, face falling. “You think it’s funny, don’t you Stonesy?” He slid the phone across the table. 

John looked down at it half heartedly. It was a video of a guy dressed as Santa fucking someone dressed an as elf. Delph thought it was comical but John actually found it kind of hot, and he knew he’d have to look away before he popped a semi under the table. 

“Funny, yeah,” he said, pushing the phone back across. “People are into the weirdest shit.” 

“Do not let Pep see you doing that,” Laporte interjected. “He won’t find that very funny.” 

“Why not?” Delph huffed, picking up his phone. “Fucking fun sponges, the lot of you. I’ll go and show Olecks, he’ll like it.” 

“That’s because he’s a fucking moron,” Kyle muttered as Delph wandered off. “Fucking weirdo, him, eh? John? John?” 

John looked at Kyle, bringing himself back to the present. “What? Yeah. Fuck knows what goes on in his head.” 

He stuck his earphone back in and finished his lunch, the whole time thinking - I want to fuck in a Santa hat. 

— 

The thought didn’t leave him for the rest of the day. He was horny now - it was under his skin and refusing to leave him alone. He wanted to have sex wearing a damn Santa hat, no matter what it took - it was a simple request, nothing too crazy. He’d definitely asked for weirder things before, and Jordan had always been accommodating. 

John didn’t hang around at the end of the work day. He got in his car and drove to the nearest Asda, breaking more than a few speed limits on his way. He went to customer services instead of wasting time search by himself, asked if they sold Santa hats. The girl looked bored and uninterested and lead him up the Christmas aisle, to the paltry display of fuzzy red and white hats that was seriously picked over. 

He stared at them for a while, picked up a few and rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger. The red would probably make Jordan’s cheeks pop, which he was entirely on board with. He picked one up, one from the back of the rack, and took it to the self scan checkouts. 

— 

Jordan was already home when John pulled up. He opened the front door, stepping into the heat and light of the house, and listened out. 

Jordan was pottering about upstairs, he could hear. He left his shoes by the front door and took his Asda bag up with him. Jordan was in the bedroom folding clothes on the bed, his back to the door. John leaned in the doorframe and watched him, silent. 

After a moment he said “Hey,” softly and Jordan jumped a mile into the air, looking around with wild eyes. 

“Holy fuck,” he said, bringing a hand to his heart. “Fucking scared me John.” 

“I’m sorry,” John smiled, coming into the room properly. He walked to the bed and discarded the bag there, taking Jordan by the chin and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He looked at him, at his face, and peppered kisses along his jaw too - one, two, three, right along the growing stubble. Jordan hadn’t shaved for days and John was into it, into how rough it felt. 

“Wow,” Jordan said, bringing his hand to John’s neck and rubbing his earlobe gently, as he did sometimes when he was feeling affectionate. “You’re in a good mood.” 

John smiled, teeth capturing his bottom lip, and moved his nose back and forward against Jordan’s. 

“Always in a good mood when I see you.” 

Jordan laughed. “That’s not true, is it?” He said softly, kissing John on the lips. 

“Always true,” John replied, moving his hands to Jordan’s arse. “Always make me happy. Specially this.” 

“Shut up,” Jordan said against John’s mouth. “Love you.” 

“I got you something.” John pulled away and bent down to the bed, digging his hand into the bag. He pulled out the hat, held it up, beaming at it. 

“Why?” Jordan said, looking between John and the hat with his eyebrows furrowed. “Bit random.” 

“It’s Christmas time,” John supplied. “And you’d look good in it.” Jordan took the hat, turned it over in his hands. “And I want to fuck you in it.” 

Jordan paused, looking at John, hands stilling. “What?” 

“I saw a video earlier. A porno. Guy was dressed as Santa. It was so hot, Jord.” 

“What the fuck kind of training methods is Pep using these days?” 

John shook his head. “No, no, it wasn’t - Delph showed us it - can you put it on?” 

Jordan’s face changed. “Ew, Delph - no, John, fuck sake, that’s too weird. I’m going to get fucked because of something fucking Fabian Delph showed you? No. No.” 

John grabbed Jordan by the wrists. “Don’t do this. No, it’s not because of him, it’s got fuck all to do with him - don’t ruin it - “ 

Jordan dropped the hat on the bed and pulled his wrists out of John’s grasp. “Not right now, okay?” He turned back to his laundry, humming under his breath. 

John stood there in silence for a second, and then he stomped off down the stairs, annoyed. 

— 

When Jordan finally joined him in the kitchen some time later, John was huffy and short. Jordan just rolled his eyes at him, moving around like he wasn’t there. 

He was buttering a slice of toast when John said “Come on, just wear the Santa hat for a little bit?”

Jordan looked at him. “If I wear that Santa hat will you wear something for me?” 

John’s eyes lit up. “Yes. Anything. I’ll wear anything.” 

Jordan shrugged. “Fine then. Get the hat. I’ll wear it.” 

“Really?!” 

“Yeah. Go get it, good lad.” 

John wasted no time. He sprinted up the stairs, into the bedroom. Grabbed the hat and ran back down with it, coming to a screeching halt in front of Jordan and his slice of toast. He put the hat on him like he was crowning a royal, marvelling at the beauty of it. 

“Wow,” he breathed, causing Jordan to laugh. 

“Oh John. Fucking hell, you’re batty. C’mere.” 

They kissed and John wasted no time in putting a hand down Jordan’s pants, moving his thumb back and forth along the length of him. 

“Have you been naughty or nice this year?” Jordan said breathily. 

John laughed. “Nice. Been nice.” 

“Well then. If you’ve been nice, I suppose I’ll let you fuck me.” 

John’s eyes closed and he breathed wetly into Jordan’s neck. “Oh my god. I’m hard already.” 

Jordan was almost there himself, sporting a semi as he leaned back against the counter. “Your sex drive surprises me every day, Stones.” 

John dropped to his knees in one fluid motion and tugged Jordan’s trousers down at the same time. He nosed at his cock, kissed it wetly. He took it in and gave it a few blows and then he turned Jordan around, eyes on the prize. 

“Jesus,” Jordan said as John stuck his face in his arse. “Jesus christ.” 

“Don’t talk about him at a time like this.” John scolded, his words vibrating against Jordan’s backside. “You’ll go to hell.” 

“Oh, I’m going to hell alright,” Jordan said, bending over properly. “And it’s so worth it.” 

John licked him like a cat drinking milk. Jordan let his head rest on his forearm and he moaned quietly, trying to ignore the itch of the stupid Santa hat on his head. John worked a finger in, wet enough from his mouth alone, and Jordan forgot why he ever resisted this. It was so filthy, so hot - he’d wear the damn hat every day of his life if this was the pay off. 

John was fingering him open carefully, taking his time. He was always so careful when they did this - he didn’t want to hurt or distress Jordan. John was a good top, even though it wasn’t his default setting. He prided himself on his versatility. 

Jordan was getting whiny when John pulled back and wiped his mouth against his forearm. He could do that all day - he could literally eat Jordan out all day - but he wanted him naked. He pulled his trousers down and off and stood up, tugging at the hem of his top. 

The hat came off with it and John replaced it gently, grinning. “Alright. I’m going to make love to you now.” 

Every time John got to slide into Jordan was the new best moment of his life. He liked being fucked, he really did, but there was no feeling on earth like the tightness of another body around your cock. John looked down at the bumps of Jordan’s spine and the ridiculous Santa hat on his head and he felt his dick twitch inside. Jordan felt it too because he hummed appreciatively, wiggling his hips slightly. 

John started to move, hands anchored on Jordan’s hips. He was stroking slowly, almost annoyingly so. He tilted his head to the side. 

“Will you say hohoho when you come?” 

“Don’t fucking push it,” Jordan grunted, looking over his shoulder. “Get my prostate drilled or you’re surrendering your role, John, I mean it.” 

John picked up the pace, changed his angle. He knew that if he went a little bit to the left Jordan would come really quickly, and a little more to the right would make him last longer but get him quite frustrated. He opted for the former, wanting to orgasm really badly himself. 

Jordan moaned freely, uninhibited - he was so vocal when he was being fucked, and it drove John crazy. He kept up a solid rhythm and put his hand round to hold onto Jordan’s balls, obsessed with the way they felt when he was about to come. 

“Gonna be a white Christmas, Santa,” John said, and Jordan laughed. 

“Don’t make me laugh when there’s a dick in my arse,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t be funny, be sexy.” 

“I’m about to come all over your fucking colon, Pickford. About to shoot my load inside you. Full of my fucking sperm you’ll be, looking for somewhere to spawn my offspring. Fucking cum bucket. Fucking love you.” 

John felt Jordan’s balls tighten in his hand, and he groaned, moving his hand to Jordan’s wrist where he was wanking himself through his orgasm. John came pretty quickly after, filling Jordan with his come till it came trickling back down and dripped onto the floor. He pulled out and stared at Jordan’s arse, at the sight of his own come leaking from him, and shuddered in delight. 

Jordan straightened up and pulled off the hat, scratching at his head. “Thing was so fucking itchy. Could you not have got a better one?” 

“Didn’t have time,” said John, picking it up and swinging it around on his finger. “Here,” he said, bending down and turning Jordan around again. He took the felt of the hat and swiped it against Jordan’s arse, cleaning him up a bit. 

“Hohoho,” Jordan said, smiling. He pulled John up and kissed him. “You owe me. Big time. Get ready.” 

There was nothing John wouldn’t do for Jordan, even if he’d never openly admit it. He smiled dopily. “Let’s have it, Jord.”


	11. 11. Eric Dier & Dele

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas - she & him

When the snow started to fall, Eric’s first instinct was to phone Dele. 

Dele didn’t pick up the immediately, and Eric knew it was probably because he’d changed Dele’s ringtone to All I Want For Christmas when he wasn’t looking, and he didn’t recognise his own phone. Dele picked up the second time, though, with a snappy “Did you do this?” 

Eric smiled. “Do what?” 

“Change my bloody ring tone?” 

“Who has a ring tone anymore?” 

“Fuck off. What is it?” 

“Want to come over? It’s snowing,” Eric said, biting his nails and looking out the window at the flurry. 

“Not particularly,” Dele said, voice slow. “Might get snowed in.” 

Eric almost, almost said - would that be so bad? But he didn’t. Instead, he said “S’not gonna snow that much. Come over and watch The Grinch with me.” 

Dele sighed exaggeratedly, like he was being asked to do something really laborious and inconvenient. “Fine. Be over in thirty,” he said, and hung up the phone. 

By the time Dele arrived the snow was beginning to lie on the ground. He came into Eric’s house with his hands tucked under his armpits and a face like thunder, like he was so unbelievably inconvenienced to have been dragged out here. He stamped his feet on the carpet when he entered and toed off his shoes. One of the legs of his sweat pants was half way up his calf and the other was straight down, his feet encased in fluffy pink socks - the kind you get from Primark for a quid. Eric looked at them and guffawed. 

“Don’t remember inviting a thirteen year old girl over,” he quipped. 

Dele turned around and looked at him. “Really? Should I call the police? To Catch A Predator?” 

“Fuck off,” Eric half laughed, following Dele into the house. “Twat.” 

They shuffled into the kitchen and Dele patted the dogs whilst Eric peered into the fridge, hip popped. “You hungry?” He said over his shoulder. 

Dele shrugged. “Not really. You?” 

“Meh,” Eric huffed, closing the fridge. “Nah.” 

He leaned against the counter and took out his phone, flicking through Facebook absently. Dele was doing the same, phone close to his face. Eventually Eric got bored and closed his phone, looking up at Dele. 

“Wanna have a snowball fight?” He asked. 

Dele didn’t look away from his screen. “What?” 

“Want to have a snowball fight?” 

“Eh - Dunno. No?” 

“C’mon,” Eric said, coming over and taking Dele’s phone from his hand. “It’s fun.” 

“Haven’t got gloves.” 

“I’ve got spares. C’mon,” Eric insisted, walking off towards the closet in the hall. “Snowball fight.” 

Dele groaned and dragged his feet after Eric, whining like a big baby. “It’s so cold out there! I’ll freeze!” 

“Stop it,” Eric said, throwing a pair of gloves at Dele’s face. “Let’s go.” 

— 

There was barely enough snow in Eric’s back garden for a snow ball fight, all things considered, but they made a good go of it. The dogs were delighted by the weather, biting at the flakes and running around manically. 

Having grown up in Portugal, Eric was always excited by snow and the novelty of it. He liked how cold it was, how mesmerising. Dele could take it or leave it and usually he preferred to leave it, but he still got into their snowball fight, slamming them into Eric’s back and shoulders with all his might. 

Once he pelted it too hard and lost his footing, pulling himself backward and onto his arse. He lay there in the snowy grass laughing until Eric came over and flopped down beside him, laughing happily. The dogs soon approached and started licking Eric’s face furiously, clambering all over him. He groaned and rolled over, pushing them away. He gravitated to Dele and pushed his face into his chest, hiding from the slobbery tongues of his pets. Dele’s chest was rising and falling quickly with his laughter and he brought a gloved hand to the back of Eric’s neck, scratching fondly. Before long the dogs got bored, as dogs do, and left the boys alone - but Eric didn’t move, didn’t pull himself up. He was propped on Dele’s chest like they’d been lying in bed together, fiddling with the zip on his coat. 

Eric turned his head and looked up at Dele’s chin. “Del?” He said, gently. 

“Mmm?” 

Eric sat up and moved up Dele’s body, hovering over his face. “You’ve got snow in your eyebrows,” he mumbled. Eric removed a glove and swiped the snow flakes from Dele’s brows with a careful thumb. Dele looked up at him, angelically framed by the snowy ground, the sky above reflected in his warm eyes. His breath hitched when Eric thumbed his eyebrows, Eric heard that. 

“That’s better,” Eric murmured. “Better now.” 

Eric wanted to kiss him. It was Christmas, after all - love was to be shared, wasn’t it? Kisses were acceptable at Christmas time. He licked at his own lips and looked at Dele’s, heart thumping. Dele’s eyes followed Eric’s, and he swallowed audibly. 

And then, suddenly and brashly, the dog was on them again, wriggling between them and snarfling around like crazy. Eric snapped back instinctually, pushing him away exasperatedly. Dele was laughing again and getting to his feet, reprimanding him good naturedly. Eric scowled at the dog, but the moment was gone, the illusion shattered. He brushed snow off himself and looked at Dele apologetically, sheepishly. 

“Shall we get inside?” He asked. 

Dele nodded, patted the dog on the back. “Yeah. Fucking freezing out here, anyway.” 

They traipsed into the house, shedding their snowy clothes in the kitchen. Eric got warm joggers for them both to wear and they pulled them on in silence. Eric didn’t say anything about the way his clothes hung off Dele’s hips, ever so slightly too big for him, He flicked the kettle on and asked Dele if he’d prefer tea or hot chocolate. 

“Kind of hot chocolate is it?” Dele asked. “You got Green and Black’s?” 

Eric opened the cupboard and moved some protein powders out of the way, digging in the back. “Got a magic stars one. Some Cadbury’s.” 

“Magic stars, please.” 

Eric pulled the blue packet out and set it down next to the kettle. “Do me a favour, and go to the airing cupboard upstairs? Can you bring the blankets down?” 

Dele went happily, blowing his breath into his hands. He came back downstairs a few moments later with his arms full of blankets and dumped them in the living room, where he assumed they’d watch the movie. He’d taken the liberty of bringing Eric’s duvet down too, and he laid it over the pile of pillows he’d made on the carpet. That done, he made his way back to the kitchen to collect his hot chocolate. 

“Blankets are ready,” he called out, scratching the back of his neck. “All ready to go - oh, Dier.” 

There, on the middle of the kitchen table, was a perfectly wrapped rectangular box. It was meticulous, tied with ribbon and without a seam of paper to be seen. There was no way Eric had wrapped it himself. Dele looked at Eric, where he was leaning against the counter holding his mug, a faint smile on his face. 

“Open it,” Eric said, nodding his head at it. 

“You should’ve said, I’d have brung you a present too - “ 

“It’s about giving, not receiving. Just open it.” 

Dele approached the table, hovering - it was so perfect, he didn’t want to open it. He looked at Eric and then back at the present again, pulling at the bow, the ribbon sliding away in his hands. He let the red fabric twist between his fingers, feeling the soft smoothness of it. He folded it up next, placing it down carefully on the table. 

He felt around the edges of the package for a fold of paper and got one at the bottom edge, tucked in on itself to appear invisible. He held his breath as he slid his finger under it, taking special care not to rip the paper. He had to lift it to open it, and it was heavy, his biceps bulging with the weight of it. He tugged the paper off and found a big cardboard box. Dele licked his lips and opened the lid of the box, heart hammering. 

Inside was a print. It was a print of the night sky - a big black globe with white stars all over it on a white background, and beneath it the words ‘under this sky Dele scored his first World Cup goal, and the nation fell in love.’ The Night Sky, 7th July 2018, 53.2782N, 50.2384E. Dele looked at it in silence, utterly frozen. 

“I wanted to commemorate it. Our lives changed this summer. Your life changed. You did that, Del. You did that.” 

Dele looked at Eric and found that his eyes were watering. There was a lump in his throat, and he swallowed against it. “I’m going to cry and I don’t know why,” he whispered, and Eric smiled fondly, putting down his mug and coming over. 

“It’s okay to cry. It’s okay,” he said, pulling Dele into his chest. “I understand. I feel it too.” 

Dele cried into his shoulder, blubbering sobs that he had no idea he’d been capable of a few minutes ago. He pulled back eventually, gasping for breath, smiling despite the tears coming out of his eyes. 

Eric smiled back, moving his thumbs to wipe away the droplets on Dele’s cheeks. “It’s alright,” he was saying, wiping the water away. “I’m so proud of you.” He leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. “So proud of you.” Without thinking he kissed him on the lips, quick enough for it to be passed off as a friendly gesture, soothing in a time of emotion. 

Dele frowned and blinked, lashes wet with tears, and brought a finger to his lips. Eric held him by the cheeks and stared, frozen. Dele’s eyes swept over Eric’s face. It was clear his brain was whirring, putting the pieces together. 

“Wasn’t just the nation that fell in love, was it?” He asked quietly, barely a whisper. Eric nodded his head in affirmation, and Dele inhaled sharply. “Fucking hell,” he said, eyes falling on Eric’s mouth. “Fucking hell.” He was kissing him then, kissing him furiously. “Fucking hell,” he mouthed into Eric’s lips, nipping his bottom lip. 

They ended up not watching The Grinch, in the end. Dele’s hot chocolate went cold too, but it was probably a good thing because Eric had had the packet in the cupboard since the last Christmas and it was long out of date. 

The blanket fort in the living room though, that came in handy. It was the perfect end to the perfect year; they’d both always agree on that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow - Trent and Ruben (and I cant remember the plot, swear to get back on track by tomorrow guys)


	12. 12. Trent Alexander-Arnold & Ruben Loftus-Cheek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say All You Want For Christmas - Nick Jonas

Ruben was done with men. 

Done with them. Done with women, too for that matter - human beings, on the whole, were just terrible. 

Ruben had been seeing someone from Tinder - Craig - for a few weeks in the lead up to Christmas. He’d been lovely - tall, dark, handsome, the whole package. He was a bit older than Ruben and worked as a stock broker in London, wildly wealthy, and he was an absolute machine in bed. 

Ruben usually made himself wait a month or two before developing feelings but this one, he felt, was different - he’d let himself start getting attached after the first time they’d slept together. He found himself thinking about the future, getting carried away. He’d decided to surprise Craig at his apartment one day, bunch of flowers and an M&S three course dinner in his hands. 

Ruben had knocked at the door with a big handsome grin on his face. He was astonished when a young woman answered the door in one of Craig’s shirts. “She’s my daughter!” Craig had insisted. Ruben didn’t believe it for a second (the woman was white, Craig was not). 

Anyway, Ruben was done. He’d sworn off men, women, people - 2019 was going to be all about him, he’d decided. He was off love. He was celibate, and that was the end of that. 

He deleted his Tinder account and did his best not to think daily about how Craig had betrayed him and he’d fallen for it, hook line and sinker. He had two weeks off work scheduled for the holidays - the week before Christmas and the one after - and he spent it slumped on the sofa, watching Christmas specials and ordering takeaways from Just Eat. 

He went to his mum’s for Christmas, drank too much beer and fell asleep in the spare room by 9pm. His family were worried about him, complaining that he seemed depressed. He wasn’t depressed he told them, just heart broken. Just fed up. Just bored. 

His mum must’ve phoned his friends because some time during the second week of his time off - hard pressed, he’d guess the day after Boxing Day - they turned up at his flat and told him to get some clothes on because they were going clubbing. 

Ruben would probably have rather died than gone clubbing, honestly. He stared at them from his pile on the couch, sat there naked save for his threadbare dressing gown, and shrugged like some kind of imbecile. There had been a few seconds of awkward silence until his best friend Ben had hauled him up and thrown him into the shower, telling him to get a fucking grip. 

He felt better after that, he would admit. The lads had cleaned up around the place too whilst he was showering, and he had a lump in his throat wondering what he’d ever do without his friends. They put on some music and started drinking. Someone produced a pack of cards and they played kings cup, which was always guaranteed to get Ruben drunk. 

The taxis arrived to take them to the club before long. Ruben was trying to keep his energy high but with every mouthful of beer he felt less like being in a club, full of people kissing and flirting and dancing, and more like being in his dressing gown in front of the TV. 

The taxi drove through London and Ruben looked out of the window quietly. It was that weird time of year where the days bled into one jumble. It was both not Christmas and so Christmassy it hurt, days designed for lounging in new pyjamas with someone special eating Christmas leftovers and having lazy sex. 

They pulled up to the club and Ruben plastered a smile to his face, trying his best to match the mood of his friends. They got into the club and it was packed, sweaty bodies dancing together everywhere, the lights low and the music blaring. 

The guys went to the bar first, ordering drinks. Ruben had a vodka and cranberry juice and he held onto it like a life raft, giving him something to do with his hands. They moved to a section of the dance floor and stood there shuffling their feet a bit, everyone peering around for possible conquests. 

Everyone except Ruben - he was staring at the ceiling, at the lights, at his feet. He was calculating how long he’d have to stand here before he could disappear home again. He was thinking about what he’d eat when he got home when Ben nudged him. He looked up at him, and Ben leaned in to Ruben’s ear. 

“That guy’s staring at you.” 

Ruben followed Ben’s line of sight, and his stomach flipped. There was an unbelievably good looking guy staring at him - smaller than Ruben on all counts, but still fit in his own way, with a smile that could stop traffic. He licked his lips when Ruben looked at him, eyes lighting up. 

Ruben looked away fast, eyes on Ben. “No. No, Ben. I’m off men.” 

“Fucking hell, Rubes - “ 

“Seriously.” 

“He’s hot.” 

“He’s trouble.” 

“Don’t let shitty Tinder boys make you bitter. It doesn’t suit you,” Ben said, turning away again. 

Ruben considered that. Ben was right, he shouldn’t let Craig make him bitter, but... he was bitter. He was done with men, and that was that. He put down his empty cup on a nearby table and tried to join in with the dancing, sure he looked like an idiot but deciding not to care. It wasn’t like he wanted to impress anyone here anyway. 

He was trying - and failing - to floss, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Ruben turned around and came face to face with the guy from before, the one who’d been staring. He swallowed, trying not to think about how handsome he was. 

The guy smiled a million dollar smile. “Can I get you a drink?” He said over the music. 

Ruben smiled politely, shook his head. “I’m not interested,” he replied, hoping the guy would make this easy for him and just disappear. 

“I’m not looking for anything,” he shouted over the music, looking genuine. “Just looks like you’re having a terrible night and you’re far too pretty to be frowning like that, is all.” 

Ruben looked at him, at his open face, and felt his resolve fade. 

“I’m Trent,” the guy said, holding out a hand. 

Ruben chewed at the inside of his lip, and then took his hand. “I’m Ruben.” 

“Nice to meet you!” Trent said, leaning in so Ruben could hear him better. “Bar?” 

Ruben looked at Ben, who was nodding at him eagerly, and then back at Trent. “Alright,” he said. “Fine.” What was one drink? It wouldn’t mean anything. It was polite - the guy had gone out of his way to come over and ask. 

Ruben followed him to the bar, eyes wandering up and down his body before he mentally slapped himself, remembering this was not going to lead anywhere. He was off men, he told himself. No exceptions. 

“What are you drinking?” Trent asked, grinning up at Ruben. 

“Vodka and cranberry,” Ruben supplied, watching as Trent pulled a twenty out of his pocket and set it down on the bar. 

He ordered - vodka for Ruben and a Red Stripe for himself - and handed Ruben the drink, their fingers brushing around the glass. 

“Do you want to go to the smoking area? We’ll be able to hear each other better,” Trent shouted, and Ruben nodded. It was freezing but that would surely be preferable to the racket inside, he thought. He lead the way this time, squeezing past person after person and wondering if Trent was checking him out the same way he’d done to Trent. 

It was chilly outside but Ruben ran warm, usually, and he leaned against the wall, looking at Trent expectantly. Trent couldn’t stop smiling, which Ruben resented because it was making it very hard to want nothing to do with him. 

“What do you do, then?” Trent asked, jumping right in. “Let me guess - fire man?” 

Ruben smiled, took a sip of his drink. “Nope. Guess again.” 

Trent narrowed his eyes. “Male model?” 

Ruben laughed out loud. “Smooth. No, I’m a civil servant. It’s boring really, lots of paper work and policy and that sort of thing.” 

Trent’s eyes lit up. “No way? I love politics, me. What do you think of Brexit?” 

Ruben rolled his eyes. “I think the whole thing’s a farce. I mean, the triggering of article 50 would see GDP plunge by 4%. It dropped by 4.2% in 2008, isn’t that mad? Do we want ten more years of austerity? Probably not, you know what I mean?” 

Trent was staring dumbly at Ruben, and he wondered if he’d said something stupid, but Trent shook his head and held up his hands. “Alright, alright. I know nothing about politics. I avoid it, actually. I’m a physiotherapy student at Kings.” 

Ruben raised his eyebrows. “How can someone avoid politics? Politics is - it’s everything! Every little thing. It’s who takes your bins out, for god sake.” 

They began debating the merits of having politics present in your life, and Ruben was surprised by how much he was enjoying the conversation. Trent was sharp, Ruben noted, which was a refreshing change from the idiots of online dating. 

Trent grew serious at one point though. “Can I ask - why did you look so miserable inside? You don’t have to tell me, if I’m being nosy, but - “ 

“No, no. It’s fine. I’ve been going through a rough patch, you know? I was seeing someone for a while there and it didn’t work out. Was getting a bit depressed if I’m honest.” 

Trent looked genuinely sad to hear that. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That sucks. But - and excuse me if I’m speaking out of turn - fuck him, Ruben. Don’t let the fucker have the satisfaction.” 

Ruben processed that, the bluntness of the words and how they made sense. He found himself wanting to keep Trent around like some sort of therapist who could knock sense into him when required. He looked down at his feet, unable to hold the intensity of Trent’s gaze any longer. They were silent for a few moments, neither of them quite sure what to say. 

“You any good at chess?” Trent said finally. 

Ruben looked at him. “Not bad. Why?” 

“Want to go back to mine and have a game?” 

Ruben looked at Trent like he’d lost his mind. “Of chess?” 

“Yes, of chess. Strip chess, even. No funny business, just chess. Or strip chess.” 

Ruben looked at Trent, at his open face. He looked around them at the people outside the club smoking, and he looked inwardly, at himself - shutting down because one prick had rejected him. 

“Come on then. Let’s do it.” 

— 

Trent had failed to mention that he was exceptionally good at chess. 

They’d agreed on strip chess, which was how Ruben was now sat in Trent’s student flat wearing his underwear and one sock. Trent was topless but still had everything else on, including his shoes.

Ruben would’ve been pissed off if he wasn’t having so much fun. They couldn’t stop laughing, Trent wheezing every time Ruben made a show of removing another piece of clothing. It was only when Ruben was about to lose his underwear that Trent took mercy and said they could stop there, if Ruben wanted. 

Ruben had said okay, because he didn’t want things to get weird. Trent got blankets and beers and they sat together on his couch watching The Holiday on Netflix, both without bothering to put their clothes back on. Ruben must’ve fallen asleep at one point because Trent was shaking him awake, prising his beer bottle out of his hand. 

“Ruben?” Trent was saying gently. “Wake up, bud. You’ve fallen asleep. Do you want me to call you a cab? You can stay too, if you like. I can get you pillows.” 

Ruben sat up dazedly, unsure for a second where he was or what he was doing, but the second his eyes fell on Trent’s face he knew. He leaned forward and kissed him, wondering why it had taken so long for him to do this. 

The rest happened quickly, almost desperately. Ruben pulled Trent’s belt and trousers off with fumbling hands and lay himself down on the sofa, waiting for Trent to get the necessary provisions. They had sex on the sofa with the dark morning sky staring at them from outside the window, the only witness to their gasping breaths and clutching fingers, to the way Ruben’s fingers flexed around Trent’s neck as they came in tandem. 

Trent fell asleep on Ruben’s chest with the blankets pooled around their waists, the heat of Ruben’s skin enough to keep him comfortable. Ruben lay awake for a while scratching his nails up and down Trent’s back, thinking about what they’d done and how he’d set out at the beginning of the night to avoid exactly this. Something felt different though, this time. There was something about Trent that he wanted to trust. He drifted off to the sound of Trent’s faint snore, falling into a deeper sleep than he’d had for weeks. 

— 

When Ruben woke up the next morning Trent was gone. 

He wasn’t surprised, although it wasn’t normal for someone to duck out of their own apartment. Still, whatever - it’d been a one night stand. Ruben was an idiot, he’d always be an idiot. He was about to get up and get his jeans on, navigate his way home, when Trent came bustling back into the room, holding a tray with a cup of tea, a boiled egg and soldiers on it. Ruben’s heart twisted. Trent beamed at Ruben, carrying the breakfast over and sitting it down on the coffee table. 

“Morning, handsome,” Trent said, sitting down next to Ruben. “Made eggs. How’d you sleep?” 

Ruben blinked at him slowly, watching the way the winter sunlight shon on his eyelashes and made his lips look glossy. He looked at the breakfast, at the abandoned chess set. He looked over at the Liverpool scarf hanging off the back of the door. He smiled. 

“Trent?” 

“Yeah?” 

“What are your plans for New Years?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow - John and Jordan, skiing, in verbier.


	13. 13. John Stones & Jordan Pickford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas song - Wit It This Christmas - Ariana Grande (can you tell I think Christmas and Chill is a fucking masterpiece?) 
> 
> Side note - when they walk into the hotel, it would defo be slow mow and Satisfaction by Benni Bennassi would definitely be playing. That’s all.

It was Gareth’s idea to take the England NT for a long weekend to Verbier for a ski trip. 

Most of them were excited about it, for one reason or another. There were the athletic ones - Dier and Kane, Maguire and Henderson - who were eager to compete against one another and find out once and for all who the best skier on the NT really was. 

Then there were the others - the ones who were excited for the après-ski. This included Pickford and Dele, Stones and Chilwell and Trent. They were congregated at the back of the England jet, playing old Calvin Harris songs through Dele’s Bluetooth speaker and whispering about all the sordid goings on that happened after a long day of slopes, snow and sport. 

They landed in Switzerland and were all equally stunned by the beauty of the place. Even the ones who’d been before were taken once again with the stunning tranquility of the Swiss mountains, snow capped and looking like something straight out of the Sound of Music. 

On the coach to the village Dele kept on screaming “The hills are alive, with the sound of music!” at the top of his lungs until Kyle Walker turned around and bellowed at him to shut the fuck up. 

“I swear to god, mate, if I hear that one more time!!” He barked, and Gareth had to come and make him sit down whilst pointing at Dele with his eyes saying very clearly - desist. 

Nothing could dampen the mood, though. The coach pulled into Verbier just as the sun was setting and the streets were lined with fluffy white snow, looking fake in its perfection. There were Christmas lights strung on all the chalets and party goers wandering the streets with skis in hand, getting ready for a night of drinking and dancing. 

“Get me off this fucking bus! I’m too buzzin!” Pickford shouted, bouncing in his seat like a child. “Get the fucking rave on!” 

“Behave yourself, Jordan,” Gareth warned, but he wasn’t entirely serious. “Save yourself for the slopes tomorrow.” 

The coach pulled up to the hotel and they all unloaded, their energy palpable. They traipsed into the lobby with Gareth at the head of the group, laughing and jesting and throwing flirty grins at the few people dotted around, watching open mouthed as the England NT strolled into the building like some sort of slow mo montage from a movie. They were given keys to their chalets - it was up to themselves who they roomed with, and it was three per room - and off they went. 

John was in with Kyle and Raz. There were bunk beds and a single, and he got the top bunk. He was pleased as punch with himself until he realised he couldn’t sit up straight when he was in it and he started feeling claustrophobic. They unpacked a bit, fucked around getting themselves freshened up, and then went to meet the rest of the gang to check out Verbier. 

— 

The world of après-ski in Verbier was going to kill them all, John was sure. 

He stood open mouthed as he took in the scene - a DJ on a raised deck and hundreds of party people everywhere, going crazy in their hats and gloves. He looked round at the rest of the lads, mouth ajar. 

“Are you seeing this?!” He shouted at Kyle, who was shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “Dier said it was mad, but this...” 

They all tore in, wasting no time in getting involved. John was being handed shots and drinks constantly, even drugs, which he refused. They were all lit, having the time of their lives. Gareth had told them explicitly not to get too drunk but there he was himself, shaking his hips to Fatboy Slim with a pair of flashing glasses on. 

The whole thing was absolutely wild, in all, and it was only their first night. John decided he didn’t care how hungover he was the next day. He took two shots of jaeger off a girl with a tray, gave one to Kyle, and decided to get monumentally mortal. 

— 

Hell didn’t describe the pain John was in the next morning. 

He woke up to a rolling stomach and sat up fast, knowing he was going to throw up. When he sat he smacked his head off the ceiling and screamed in pain, shuffling down the bed and trying to find the bunk bed stairs. He was either still drunk or his coordination was off because he missed the rungs and came crashing onto the floor in a huge heap of lankiness. 

He got to his feet quickly, not sure how much longer he could avoid throwing up. John sprinted to the bathroom and flung open the door, only to find Raz was already bent over the toilet, looking worse than John did. 

John looked around with bulging eyes and settled on the sink. He and Raheem were throwing up in joint tandem, and it was neither of their finest moments. 

It was another hour before they were confident enough to get up off the bathroom floor and get water. They crawled into the living space of the chalet where Kyle was stood, bright as a daisy, laughing at them. 

“Amateurs,” he said, shaking his head. 

John threw daggers at Kyle. “Why aren’t you hungover?” 

“I am, but I also know my limits. You were doing body shots off Jordan Pickford at 4 this morning.” 

John’s face drained of what little colour it had. “Shut up,” he said. “No I wasn’t.” 

“Yes you were. You kept saying you’d always wanted to shag - “ 

“SHUT UP. SHUT THE FUCK UP,” John roared, pointing at Kyle. “DON’T GO ANY FURTHER.” 

Kyle laughed uproariously as John stormed back into the bedroom, anxiety unfurling itself in his stomach suddenly. 

— 

They had to meet on the slopes at 1pm. John and Raheem somehow managed to pull themselves out of the chalet, both in a world of pain. The rest of the team seemed okay - Gareth was a bit quiet, and Harry Maguire was green - but Pickford was nowhere to be seen, to no one’s surprise and John’s delight. 

They got started. John managed two circuits of the slopes before he gave up and lay down in the snow, willing the earth to open up and swallow him. Dier turned out to be the best skier, which wasn’t news, whilst Sterling threw up all over the top of the bunny slopes and earned himself a bollocking from Gareth. 

Most of them were actually quite bad at skiing, all things considered. They all agreed at the end of the session to stick to football, and finally, thank the lord - John could go back to the room and be on his own. 

“Back on it tonight, John?” Kyle said, buttoning up his shirt. “Saturday night’s meant to make last night look like an amateur’s night.” 

John thought about it, and then shook his head. “I fucked it last night, Walks. Might check out the hot tub and get an early one.” 

“You serious? You’re a shit bag. Total shit bag.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” John muttered, lying down on Kyle’s bed. “Plenty chances to get fucked in Switzerland.” 

Raheem came in at one point and went right under the covers, falling asleep. John and Kyle just looked at each other, opting not to say anything. John walked Kyle to the door and told him to have a good night, not to do anything he wouldn’t do. 

He wandered to the kitchen and made himself a hot chocolate with the hotel provided tools, bringing it and sitting cross legged on the couch overlooking a view of the Swiss mountains. He’d never believe how lucky he’d gotten, never be ungrateful. John watched the sun go down over the horizon and tried not to think about the previous evening’s behaviour too much - that would be an act of self sabotage, plain and simple. 

After a while he crept back into the bedroom where Raheem was asleep and gathered up his towel and bathing suit. He put it on in the bathroom and stuck his earphones in, making sure he had his keycard to the room. 

The halls were deserted on his way to the hot tub. There had been a brochure in the room about it - it was outdoors and available to VIP guests only. John would be lying if he said he’d rather be partying than be in the tub, honestly. He got to the doors that exited onto the patio and shuddered against the cold, picking up the pace. He rounded the corner, pulling his earphones out, and froze. 

Pickford was in the hot tub, head tipped back against the edge, eyes closed. John’s breath caught and he started back tracking, hoping he could disappear as quickly as he’d come - but he walked right into the sign for the hot tub, knocking it over in an almighty metal crash and causing intense pain to shoot up his heel. 

“Fuck!” He hissed, grabbing his foot. 

Pickford’s head snapped up and he looked at John with both brows raised, sitting up straighter. “Hello?” 

John looked at Jordan and smiled tightly. “Hello. Sorry, I didn’t know you were here - I’ll come back,” he said, beginning to turn. 

“Plenty room, like,” Jordan said, motioning to the tub. “Long as you don’t pee in it, I’m fine.” 

John couldn’t say no without looking weird so he came over awkwardly, kicking off his sliders and putting his towel over them. He stepped into the heat of the hot tub and groaned - it felt so good, soothing to his tired muscles and comforting against the cold of the night air. 

They sat at opposite sides of the hot tub, saying nothing, and then they both tried to speak at once, smiling at each other bashfully. 

“You go,” Jordan said. 

“Why you not at the party?” John tried again. 

“Too hungover. Hadn’t stopped throwing up all day, man, can’t stand the thought of more bevvy. You the same?” 

“Yeah, man. Whiteyed all day too. Haven’t got the stamina for it, all that drink.” 

Jordan laughed. “Same, not with the job. Did you see Gareth, though? He was on one.” 

“Oh my god, I know. Never seen him like that. Party animal, him.” They fell into silence again, and John knew he had to address the elephant in the room. “Kyle said - he said I was saying shit last night,” he said, praying Jordan would fill the blanks and not make him say it. 

“Saying what?” 

“You know. Stupid shit.” 

“Honestly, mate, I don’t remember a thing. Nothing. So, don’t worry about it, whatever it was. I don’t remember it either.” 

John let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding and smiled, relieved. “Cool. Great,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Sound.” 

They were quiet again, but it was less awkward. Jordan tipped his head back once more and John floated serenely, half his face in the water. 

“John?” Jordan asked a while later. 

“Yeah?” 

“What was it like? Winning the premier league?” 

John sat up. “Amazing, Jordan. Really, honestly. Amazing. We’re going to win stuff, you know. England. We’re going to win trophies.” 

“Reckon?” 

“I know. I dunno about Everton,” John joked. “But I do know about England.” 

Jordan looked at John carefully, inspecting his features. John stared back, entranced by Jordan’s gaze - and then Jordan brought his hand down fast on the surface of the water, causing it to splash up into John’s face. 

“Fucker!” John yelped, splashing Jordan back. 

Jordan laughed and moved into the middle of the hot tub, pushing water over John repeatedly. John moved too, splashing at Jordan, and then he put his hands on Jordan’s head and tried to push him under. Jordan moved his hands under John’s thighs and lifted him easily, pulling his feet out from under him. John wrapped his arms around Jordan’s shoulders instinctively, his legs coming to rest around his waist almost of their own accord. 

They were both breathless. Jordan lifted John over to the edge of the tub again, where the raised ledge acted as a seat, and sat down with him in his lap, both of them blinking at each other and breathing heavily. 

“I did hear what you said last night,” Jordan said in a low voice. “You said you’d always wanted to shag me.” 

John considered lying and denying it, but there was something in Jordan’s eyes, something in the way his legs felt spread across Jordan’s lap, and he knew he couldn’t. 

“Since the pens,” he said. “Since the Colombia game.” 

“Oh, right. Know why else I couldn’t leave the room today, Stonesy?” 

“Why?” John breathed, looking down at Jordan’s face. 

“Was wanking thinking about it. About you wanting to shag me. About gettin my hands on your tight little body - “ 

“Holy fuck - “ 

“And just. Getting to fuck you.” 

John was hard. Embarrassingly and obviously, right there in his swim shorts for the world to see. Jordan was hard too, John could feel it under his thigh. He wanted to get it in his mouth but he’d drown if he went down right there, and if Jordan got out the tub and sat on the side he’d no doubt freeze. 

“Put your hand on us,” he said quietly, lips barely moving. 

Jordan took a hand from John’s waist and put it in on his erection, causing both of them to shiver. They were both looking down, watching Jordan touch it outside the shorts. 

“You can touch mine if y’want,” Jordan said roughly, putting his finger tips in the waistband of John’s shorts. 

John didn’t need to be told twice. He stuck his hand right into Jordan’s shorts and wrapped his hand around him, finding it a bit strange to perform a hand job in water. Jordan did the same, moving his hand experimentally, carefully. There was a moment where John thought that anyone could see them like this - anyone at all - but he didn’t dwell on it for long because Jordan was squeezing his dick hard and it felt insane. He could feel his own pulse beating against Jordan’s fingers and he couldn’t help the way his legs spread wider, his head falling forward to rest against Jordan’s. Their breath was condensing in the cold air, huffing little gusts of grey air right into each other’s faces, little puffs of themselves into the atmosphere. 

John came first, which was annoying because he had to finish Jordan even though he was exhausted. Jordan didn’t take long, though, thank god. They were still for a few seconds until they both realised they were now swimming in their own semen and they got out the tub with a grimace, grabbing for their towels with their backs to each other. 

John peeked over his shoulder at Jordan, and Jordan was doing the same thing. Their eyes met and they both burst out into laughter, desperate for any way to ease the tension. 

“Fuck sake,” John sighed exasperatedly. “We’re idiots.” 

“Fucking right,” Jordan agreed. “I know we’re hanging - but do you want to nip down the party? At the very least it’ll be funny to watch Gareth again.” 

John knew exactly what was going to happen if the pair of them went to the party together and had a couple of drinks, especially after the events of the last fifteen minutes. It was an absolute disaster waiting to happen. 

“Yeah, c’mon.” He grinned. “Why the fuck not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 14 - Dele and Eric, watching Christmas movies and fooling around under the sheets.


	14. 14. Eric Dier & Dele

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jingle Bell Rock - Bobby Helms

Dele and Eric’s Christmas movie night was a tradition that they both took very seriously. 

It started with Prosecco, always, and then Christmas lunch. Between dinner and dessert they exchanged gifts and then they had a movie marathon, with the same three films - Home Alone, It’s A Wonderful Life, and Elf. Eric always argued for Die Hard, but Dele point blank refused to entertain that nonsense. It would end with a little glass of port and a toast in the kitchen - to the year, to the game, to each other. 

This year the venue was Dele’s house, which meant he was on the hook to prepare dinner. Dele couldn’t really cook, which drove Eric wild - it wasn’t rocket science. You just followed a set of instructions and you had food. Still, it was Dele’s turn, and so he attempted to rise to the challenge. 

He burnt everything except the cranberry sauce, and Eric could barely stifle his laughter as he was served a plate of charred food by a scowling Dele. They sat in front of their plates for a few minutes and then looked at each other simultaneously. 

“Dominos?” They said at the same time.

Eric called and ordered it whilst Dele scraped the plates into the bin. They exchanged gifts whilst they waited for their food - Eric received a pair of Eagles boxers signed by Carson Wentz, Dele got a build a bear in a custom Spurs top that said “DELLLEEEEEEE” when you pressed its paw. 

They ate the pizza whilst listening to Spotify’s Christmas Hits playlist, debating over the ultimate Christmas song - Dele argued for Mariah, Eric was Team George Michael - and when they were done Dele decided to fetch the port early, pouring out a couple of glasses. 

“To 2018 - the craziest year so far,” Dele said, glass in the air. 

“To the World Cup, to Spurs and to Harry Kane’s right foot,” Eric added. 

“To you and me,” Dele finished, and they clinked glasses, drinking down the rich heat of the port. 

“Alright. Home Alone?” 

They sat down in Dele’s living room and turned all the lights off so it was just the Christmas tree casting shadows around the room. They could both quote Home Alone at this point, and they did so, taking it in turns to finish the lines. Dele always choked up when Kevin saw his mum again at the end and this year was no exception, Eric laughing as Dele pressed down on his tear ducts. 

When Home Alone was over Eric complained about it being cold, and Dele told him to go and get his gloves on. 

“Shut up,” Eric fussed. “Not putting gloves on to watch a movie. You got blankets?” 

Dele shook his head. “Just my duvet.” 

Eric looked at him like he was stupid. “Well? Can we go and lie under it?” 

“Nice down here with the tree,” Dele whined, making no moves to get up. 

Eric pressed his icy fingers to the warm exposed skin of Dele’s hip. “Please, Del, I’m freezing,” he begged, putting on the puppy eyes. 

“Ow! Right, fine. C’mon,” Dele agreed, getting up grudgingly and turning the TV off. “You’re spoiled, Dier.” 

Eric bounded up the stairs and into Dele’s big bed gleefully, snuggling down in the expensive sheets that smelled muskily of Dele’s skin. Dele came in and switched the lights on, grumbling that Eric was on his side but making no effort to actually move him. He grabbed the remote for his bedroom TV off the bedside table and switched it on, settling down himself. 

He navigated to Amazon video and pulled up It’s A Wonderful Life. It was better up here, warmer and cosier, and the sound system was better in Dele’s room. They watched contentedly, quietly. Eric’s foot tapped against Dele’s calf at one point and he didn’t move it, leaving the arch of his foot curved up against the hairs on Dele’s leg. Just like that, their attention was gone from the movie and honed in on that point of contact. 

Getting brave, Eric chanced it and moved his foot slightly, an affectionate rub. Neither of them took their eyes off the TV. Dele moved his right hand an inch, feeling out with his pinkie, and it came into contact with Eric’s hip. Again, neither of them said anything. Dele moved the hand more, bringing his fingers to perform a lazy back and forward rhythm just above the waistband of Eric’s joggers. He pressed his thumb to the jagged edge of Eric’s pelvis, let his fingers explore all the way to the course hair directly under his belly button. 

Still neither of them said anything, didn’t acknowledge what they were doing. Eric even coughed like he was bored, having a nibble at his thumbnail. Dele carefully, slowly, tested the waters by pushing his forefinger under Eric’s waistband. When there was no protest he put the rest of his fingers down there too, moving them back and forth like he was feeling for something under a doorframe. His fingers came into contact with the head of Eric’s dick, clearly hard and pressed up against his waist. They both held their breath, Dele’s fingers freezing. Before he could second guess it, Dele took the plunge and let his fingers ghost over the barrel of Eric’s cock. It was silky soft, thick - Dele could feel the raised veins in it when he brushed the pads of his fingers along it, back and forth, up and down. 

The only sign that anything was happening was the quickening of Eric’s breaths. He was trying to remain completely unmoved but he couldn’t help the way his heart had picked up speed. He coughed a little bit again, disguising a weak groan. Dele put his fingers around Eric’s dick properly, took a hold of it. It was really hard to move with Eric’s trousers and underwear still on though so he let go and withdrew his hand, pulling suggestively at Eric’s clothes. 

Eric got the message and put his hands under the duvet, still looking at the TV with a bored expression. He shucked his pants down to his thighs and then let one hand flop back onto the top of the duvet, putting the other behind his head for good measure. Dele gripped it again, and it was easier now, standing straight up and feeling like it belonged in Dele’s fist. 

“Hate it when his mum does that,” Dele grunted, nodding at the TV. 

Eric’s eyes were glassy and he looked at Dele out the corner of his eye. “Same,” he said, hating how breathy it came out. “Not nice.” 

The TV was loud but they could still hear the obscenely wet sound of the head of Eric’s penis being jacked by the force of Dele’s hand. Dele was good at it, knew how to twist his hand over the top on occasion, knew just the kind of pace to employ to keep Eric on the edge. 

The silence they were in was weird for them, as chatty as they usually were. Eric was trying really hard not to make any noise - it was proving really hard, giving him throwbacks to teenage wanks with his parents next door. He pulled the neck of his hoodie up into his mouth and bit down on it, fingers flexing a little on top of the sheets. 

“Did the port taste funny to you?” Dele mumbled. 

“What?” Eric couldn’t concentrate. He could hardly trust himself to open his mouth in response. 

“Did the port taste weird?” Dele asked louder, his hand never stopping, never slowing down. 

“Uh - no,” Eric managed, wondering if he was hallucinating the hand on his dick. 

“Tasted a bit off to me.” 

They didn’t say anything else. Eric really, really, really wanted to ask Dele to go faster but they clearly weren’t discussing what they were doing. He tried bucking his hips up to relay what he was thinking but Dele didn’t change, either not understanding or not caring. 

Eric began to feel the orgasm build in his lower stomach, and he really did grip the bed sheets, unable to stop a quiet whine emanating from his throat. It was at that moment that Dele stopped, taking his hand off Eric and putting them both on top of the sheets. Eric looked on in bewilderment, the threat of orgasm receding. He stared at Dele, confused. 

Without looking away from the screen Dele said “Think you could hold off till the end of Elf?” and Eric’s jaw dropped. 

“The - What? We’ve not even started Elf,” he gasped. “That’s three hours away.” 

Dele shrugged. “That’s the deal.” 

“That’ll kill your arm.” 

Dele looked at him then, for the first time, with a raised brow. “I’m a professional athlete. But you could go down, kill a bit of time.” 

Eric couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Go down where?” 

“Down the stairs and clean the fucking dishes,” Dele scoffed sarcastically. “Down on me, moron.” 

Eric wasn’t sure this was real life, he really wasn’t. He looked at Dele’s face for a clue but all he got was a bored expression, the light of the TV screen flickering across his smooth skin. Next thing he was under the duvet, eyes adjusting to the darkness, the smell of his own cock very evident. He found Dele’s hips and patted his hand experimentally, searching - and bingo, there it was, hard as fuck even though it hadn’t been touched, which made Eric’s dick twinge. 

Eric pulled it out and gave a few licks, a few tame kisses, and then he put the whole thing in, tongue flat against the underside. Dele didn’t move, didn’t make any noise, and Eric took it as a challenge. He used his hand and his mouth to make him feel totally surrounded, bringing as much saliva to his mouth as he could. He gagged once, right on the head, and he swore he tasted a trickle of come right after it. He was sucking it like a werthers original, firmly ignoring the cries for attention his own cock was giving him, and he hummed appreciatively when Dele finally stuck a hand under the sheets and placed it over Eric’s head, scratching at the stubbly strands with his blunt nails. 

Dele started to push Eric’s head a bit, and Eric really really wanted to get up and argue that Dele hadn’t been very accommodating to him, but instead he followed the instruction and picked up the pace, mouth wide enough that his jaw was aching and he couldn’t really breathe. He flicked his tongue right into the slit of the head and he heard Dele huff out a quick ‘shit’ before he started coming, right into Eric’s mouth, right down his throat. 

Eric swallowed it because he was just that kind of guy and Dele patted him briefly on the cheek before stuffing his cock back into his pants and putting his hand back on top of the sheets. Eric was unbelievably, painfully hard; knew it was probably turning purple at this point, and he came up for air with what he knew were red cheeks and a shiny forehead. 

He lay back against his pillow again, frustrated to note that Dele didn’t look affected in the slightest. They waited a few beats, Eric still agonisingly hard, and then Dele put his hand back down on Eric’s dick. He tugged it once, twice, and then reached down and grabbed hold of his balls. He rolled them between his fingers, played with them gently. Eric was trying very, very hard to stay still. 

Dele messed around with Eric’s balls for 16 hours (20 minutes) before bringing his hand back out and putting his middle finger in his mouth. Eric gawped at him, thinking - surely not - and then held his breath when the finger came back down, past his cock and balls and found it’s way to his arse. He froze, a bit shocked. Dele looked at him then, face impassive. 

“Can I finger you?” He said quickly, like he was embarrassed to be saying the words.

Eric shuffled down a bit and nodded, opening his legs as far as he could with his trousers down. Dele looked back at the final few scenes of their movie and pushed his finger in, bit by bit. Eric’s hands were balled up in the sheets and he was staring at a point on the ceiling, focus entirely on his best friend’s finger in his arse. 

It was torturous, really. Dele was just fucking it in and out leisurely, almost like it was an afterthought to the movie he was watching. At one point he did mutter “Feels well different to a pussy,” but Eric didn’t say anything, didn’t trust himself to say anything. 

Towards the end of the movie Dele just left his finger in Eric without moving it. They were just there, lying in bed, TV on, finger up Eric’s arse. Eric was trying to mentally calculate how long was left of this stupid movie when Dele’s phone went. It was Harry Winks, looking for a FaceTime, and Eric thought - no. Please no. 

“Winksy!” Dele cried happily, holding the phone up with the hand that wasn’t inside Eric. “Sup?” 

“Alright mate, you busy?” 

“Nah, just watching Christmas movies with Eric,” Dele said, turning the phone so that Eric was in shot. 

As he did that, he began moving his hand again, really pressing up against the inside walls of Eric’s body and sending sparks of pleasure down his spine. Eric was going to kill him. 

“Happening, Dier?” Harry said, smiling down the phone. Eric waved back, didn’t think he could talk. Dele lined up a second finger and began to push it in. “What’s wrong with you? You look annoyed,” Harry pressed, and Eric wanted to die. 

“Feel a bit - funny after Dinner,” Eric choked. 

“Oh, that’s shit. What did you have?” 

Eric shot Dele a look, a pleading look, but he was ignored. “Dominos,” he said faintly. “Del can’t cook. Fucking - burned everything.” As he said that final comment, Dele retaliated by pressing down firmly against Eric’s prostate. 

He moaned, filthily, embarrassingly, an open mouthed, eyebrows down, groan of pleasure that made Harry pause and Dele snatch out his fingers, leaving Eric open and empty. 

“What was it you wanted, Harry? Can I call you back?” Dele said suddenly, taking the camera away from Eric. “Dier’s about to throw up.” 

“Yeah, okay ma - “ He didn’t get to finish because Dele hung up, throwing the phone towards the end of the bed somewhere and looking at Eric with blazing eyes. 

“Let’s wank each other at the same time and speed and the first one to come has to do whatever the other one says for a week.” 

Eric looked at Dele like he was crazy. “You’re joking - I’m right on the fucking edge - you’ve already come once!” 

“It’s that or wait till the end of Elf,” Dele snapped, looking at Eric impatiently. “Come on.” 

Who was Eric to say no? He put a hand on Dele at the same time as Dele put a hand on him, and they started to wank each other off in unison, matching each other’s pace. Eric was ready to come any second. He was thinking of unsexy things - a blow job from Harry Kane, England losing the World Cup - but having Dele in his hand, rock solid for the second time that night was proving to override all other thoughts. 

“Gonna come,” Eric spluttered, letting Dele know. “Gonna come all over your hand.” 

To both of their surprise, it was Dele that came first - as if Eric’s words had pushed him over; nudged him into his second orgasm so quickly it was embarrassing. Eric came almost instantaneously after that, whiting out completely, no idea how loud he moaned or how hard he came, only aware of the ringing in his ears and the heat in his belly and the feeling of Dele’s own come all over his hand and wrist. 

When his senses came back to him Eric was aware of Dele grumbling, saying “You weren’t supposed to talk dirty, fucking cheater.” 

“Wasn’t talking dirty, just letting you know I was coming,” Eric snapped back, throwing the sheets off himself and grimacing down at the come streaked over his lower body. He got up and waddled to the en-suite, grabbing a handful of toilet roll and wiping himself down. 

He washed his hands and brought the roll into the bedroom, throwing it at Dele who caught it one handed. Eric fell back down on the bed and took out his phone, checking his notifications. There was a bloody text from Harry saying he hoped Eric was okay, which was endearing and ridiculous at the same time. 

“So, when does my week of whatever I want start?” Eric said, and Dele smacked him in the balls. 

“Two thousand and never,” he answered, going to wash his own hands. 

When he came back he picked up the remote and started Elf, and they watched it in happy comfort, both tired after the food and drink and orgasms. Nothing else deviated from the norm that night, but they both knew they’d started a new tradition. Neither of them were particularly mad about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 15 is Jesse, Marcus and Santa not coming if one of them doesn’t go to sleep.


	15. 15. Marcus Rashford and Jesse Lingard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Issa tiny little Drabble today. I’m on vacay and haven’t got a lot of time! Xx

Mourinho had, for some ridiculous reason, decided to call a training session for 4pm on Christmas Day. 

Jesse was fuming. He got the call and went berserk, demanding to talk to his lawyers. 

“Do we have a union?!” He shouted at no one in particular. “Is there a football union?!” 

“You earn 200K a year. Stop being a dick,” Marcus snapped at him from where he was tying his shoe laces. “People in the NHS have to work the whole day.” 

Jesse felt bad then, and he sat down with a scowl, shutting up. 

“Come stay with me, if you want. We’ll go to training together?” Marcus said, more softly. “I’ll drive. My mum’ll make us a healthy lunch.” 

Jesse thought about it - it was a good idea. He’d be at his own place anyway, alone, so as not to upset his sisters when he had to leave halfway through the day. 

“Thanks, beans,” he said, meaning it sincerely. “You’re the best.” 

Jesse came over and clapped him on the shoulder, and it was settled - they’d spend the night before Christmas together, then go into work the next day. 

— 

Jesse arrived at Marcus’s house on Christmas Eve like a child going on holiday for a month. He had a suitcase; a literal suitcase; and was wearing what Marcus could only assume were his Christmas Eve jammies. 

“What’s in the case?” Marcus asked as Jesse pushed his way into the house, suitcase getting caught in the door frame. 

Jesse shoved at it angrily and scowled at Marcus. “My stuff. Where’s your Christmas Eve jammies?” 

Marcus looked at Jesse like he was mad. “My what?” 

“Don’t you wear Christmas Eve jammies?” 

“You’ve lost the plot.” 

“Fuck off,” Jesse grumbled, pulling the case into the house and heading for the stairs. “I’m going to put this in your room.” 

Jesse came back down and joined Marcus and his family in the sitting room, hugging his mum and thanking her for having him. Marcus’s mum had got them all ginger bread houses to make, which the boys did competitively for everyone to judge. 

Jesse won, although he had a sneaky suspicion it was only because he was a guest. Half of his was falling apart, his icing glue too runny, but he took the win. 

After that they drank hot chocolate and watched The Snowman. They’d agreed on an early night, wanting to be at their best for training. They said their goodnights at around 9pm, trudging up the stairs together. 

“Get your Christmas pjs out then,” Jesse instructed, lying back on Marcus’s bed. “Cop out if you dont.” 

“I don’t have Christmas pyjamas, Jess,” Marcus said exasperatedly, pulling his shirt over his head. “I don’t wear pyjamas, you know that.” 

“You’re shit,” Jesse scolded. “Well shit. Never spending Christmas with you again.” 

Marcus sighed and flicked the light off, coming and hopping in the bed in his underwear. Jesse bounced as Marcus’s weight hit the mattress. 

“Be careful, you oaf,” Jesse grouched. 

Marcus put his arms around Jesse’s waist and hauled him into his chest, exhaling a loud breath. Jesse melted a bit, breathing in the skin on Marcus’s collarbone. 

“Tell me a story,” he commanded, running his finger around Marcus’s nipple. It was a game they’d created in Russia; a way for Marcus to sooth Jesse to sleep when he was so nervous for a game he wanted to throw up. 

“Okay. Once upon a time, there was a little boy who couldn’t want for Christmas Day. All he wanted was a new bike. He could hardly sleep on Christmas Eve...” Marcus’s voice began to trail, exhaustion taking over. Jesse flicked his pec. “Hardly sleep on Christmas Eve. He ran downstairs in the morning and looked but there was no present to be seen. He was...” 

Jesse waited, quiet in the dark. “Beans?” He whispered. Nothing. “Marcus?” 

“Mmm?” 

“Don’t go sleep.” 

“Tired. Up early tomorrow, Jess.” 

“I’m wide awake.” 

“Too much sugar.” 

“Entertain me.” 

“Jesse, if you don’t go to sleep right now, Santa’s not going to come.” 

“You’re not going to come until 2020 if you don’t entertain me.” 

“Fine. Celibate it is.” 

“Maaaaaarcuuuuuus.” 

“Count backwards from 100 for me,” Marcus said, circling his fingers rhythmically on Jesse’s lower back. “Go on. 100, 99, 98...” 

Jesse did as he was told. By 36, as Marcus had predicted, he was asleep in his arms, an angelic pile of boy in ridiculous red flannel pjs, eyelashes fanned out on his cheeks like butter wouldn’t melt. 

Marcus took the liberty of falling asleep too. Even if they had to work tomorrow, it wasn’t work as long as they were together. Being together always made things a little bit easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomoz should be Harry and Gareth, but I don’t have high hopes of getting it up - it may be late. Thanks for bearing with me! Xxx


	16. 16. Harry Kane & Gareth Southgate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! The others are coming soon. 
> 
> Do They Know It’s Christmas - Live Aid

Gareth dragged Harry Christmas shopping by promising him they could go to see the new Grinch reboot later that evening. 

Harry hated shopping centres, especially around the holidays. He hated big crowds and rampant consumerism, he despised the way shop assistants were treat this time of year - more than once he’d gotten into a fight defending some poor cashier who was being chewed out over something they had absolutely no control over.

Gareth refused to do the gift shopping by himself, though, and he’d scoffed when Harry suggested internet shopping, complaining that that was far too impersonal and a bit of a cop out. He’d told Harry they were going shopping no matter what and if Harry came, contributed and didn’t complain then Gareth would go with him to the cinema to see the new Grinch, which - as far as Gareth was concerned - was an extremely good deal. 

Harry sat with a scowl the whole way to the shopping centre, glaring out at the traffic and resenting every person who contributed to this mess. 

“Christmas shouldn’t be about the presents,” Harry grumbled as they pulled into the car park. 

“Christmas is, by nature, all about the presents Harry,” Gareth said calmly, scanning for spaces. “The three wise men? It’s an integral part of the Christmas period.” 

“Really? Do you want to have a debate about the flaws of Christianity right now?” 

Gareth laughed as he reversed into a space, calm and collected despite the line of cars waiting behind them. “Oh Harry. Behave yourself.” 

Once the car was parked and the engine switched off, they got out and walked quickly through the cold to the sprawling figure of the mall. They were hit by heat and noise when they got in the doors, bright lights and decorations hung everywhere and anywhere. Gareth winked reassuringly at Harry and lead him into the thick of it, linking their arms and standing close. 

First on the list was Gareth’s parents. They spent thirty minutes in Le Crueset as Gareth flip flopped between a red crock pot or a yellow one, and Harry humoured him until he could humour him no more and told him just to get the bloody red one. 

For Harry’s parents they picked up a set of Christmas candles, a Google Home pod and a copy of Chrissy Teigan’s new cook book. By that point Harry was beginning to lag, feet dragging and arms straining under the weight of the crock pot. Gareth kept throwing glances at him, willing him to complain so that he’d forfeit his movie night. 

Harry clenched his teeth and followed Gareth around without uttering a peep. He almost snapped and stormed out when someone barged into him, walking with their head in their phone and causing Harry to drop the bag with the cook book in. The guy didn’t even say sorry, which was the worst bit, and Harry looked at Gareth with a red face and bit his tongue. Gareth just shook his head with a grin and patted Harry on the cheek. “C’mon, you. Let’s get lunch.” 

They ate at TGI Friday, Harry going for the Jack Daniels chicken and Gareth a classic burger. Harry felt better after food, as he always did, and they hit the shops again after with renewed vigour. Harry watched as Gareth agonised over different tie materials for his brother, and examined diamond patterns in various watches for Harry’s sister. 

At one point he wondered if Gareth was making this take so long on purpose, and he really really wanted to ask why he was even there - Gareth picked all the presents himself, whilst Harry simply served as some sort of pack-mule. There were red grooves in his hands where the bags were digging into his skin and he wanted to complain, he really did, but he knew there was no way in hell Gareth would sit and watch The Grinch otherwise. 

Gareth turned to Harry in their 47th shop and kissed him on the lips, smiling with twinkly eyes. “You’re doing so well, Harry,” he murmured, patting him on the hip. “Haven’t complained even once. What a good boy.” 

Harry looked at Gareth with expressionless eyes. “Don’t mock me, Gareth, seriously - “ 

“I’m not,” Gareth said. “I’m genuinely proud of you. I know you hate this. I didn’t want to do it all on my own, though. It’s nice to be with you, spending time with you. I love you.” 

Harry felt bad then, because he should enjoy spending time with Gareth more, even if it was happening in capitalism hell. “I love you too. So much that I’ve carried this pot around for two hours and can’t feel my hands. I’d carry it for a thousand hours if it made you happy.” 

Gareth kissed him on the tip of the nose and then resumed his search for the perfect perfume for his niece. Harry lifted his wrist and looked at the time - there wasn’t long left. He could do this. 

— 

Gareth stretched their shopping trip out for another 2 hours, and Harry was dying. 

He was literally dying, feeling over sensitive and tired, head aching from the repetitive Christmas songs and eyes burning from the lights. Gareth was doing it on purpose, Harry had been sure of it after he’d been made to circle Claire’s Accessories three times for nothing. Gareth was trying to make Harry crack, and he wasn’t going to get the satisfaction - they were seeing the Grinch tonight if it killed him. 

And then, when there were no more shops to traipse, when Harry’s arms were shaking with the weight, Gareth turned to Harry and said “Alright, I think we’re good. Let’s go.” 

Harry’s knees nearly buckled. “Really?!” He cried, face lighting up. “You’re done?” 

Gareth smirked, finally reaching out and taking a few of the bags from Harry. “I was done two hours ago, but the look on your face was just too good. God, you’re a trooper.” 

Harry wanted to drop the bags on the floor and storm away, maybe never see Gareth again, but he didn’t. Instead he took a deep breath and followed as they made their way back to the car. 

— 

Gareth was true to his word, and he drove Harry to the Odeon for that night’s late showing of The Grinch. 

Harry was all excited like a kid, taking his time at the pick n mix station and choosing his sweets carefully. Gareth watched him with folded arms, unable to prevent the smile on his face. He hated cartoons and he especially hated reboots but Harry had earned this, Gareth thought. 

He paid for the sweets, kissing Harry on the temple and stealing a strawberry lace from his bag. The cinema was pretty deserted, given the late hour, and they wandered hand in hand to their screen. The attendant checked their tickets and told them they were row R, seats 13 and 14. 

Gareth held the door open for Harry and they walked into the dark theatre together. There was one couple near the front of the screen and another to the left but other than that it was empty. They took their seats and Harry rustled into his sweets, smiling brightly at Gareth and then focusing on the ads. Gareth watched Harry watch the screen for a bit - Harry’s favourite bit was also the ads and trailers before the actual movie, and watching him watch them was a joy. 

Gareth’s heart swelled as he watched Harry’s eyes crinkle and the lights of the screen play across his face. When The Grinch started playing, Gareth put a hand on Harry’s thigh and trailed his fingers up and down, letting them wander to the inside of his legs and close to where his cock was minding its own business. 

Harry looked at Gareth, confused, and then saw the look on his face and raised an eyebrow. Gareth looked at Harry challengingly and whispered “Eyes on the movie, Kane.” 

Harry looked forward again and swallowed, spreading his legs ever so slightly. Gareth undid his belt one handed - that always destroyed Harry, the way Gareth could do that - and he slid his hand into Harry’s jeans, both of them once again grateful that Harry wasn’t the tight trousers type. 

“Should we be doing this?” Harry whispered out the corner of his mouth, eyes never daring to leave the screen. 

“No. I would stop, but you’re already half hard.” Gareth answered, pulling Harry’s dick out and wrapping his hand around it firmly, confidently. “Tell me when you’re going to come, alright? No surprises, or you’re in trouble.” 

Harry nodded twice, and Gareth started wanking him off properly, licking his own lips at the feeling of Harry hardening in his hand. It was always incredible to Gareth how turned on he could make Harry; how amazing another man’s penis felt in his hand. Gareth wasn’t watching the movie, just watching his own hand go up and down Harry at the back of this cinema. 

“Feel like a teenager,” Gareth murmured in Harry’s ear. “You make me feel so young.” 

Harry swallowed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His hands were holding tight to the arms of his chair, his pick n mix long forgotten in the chair to his right. Gareth didn’t stop, not wanting to drag this out. He kept up the pace expertly, and Harry’s knuckles went white on the chair, a groan coming from his throat. 

“Gonna come,” he gasped. 

Gareth bent down and put the tip of Harry’s cock in his mouth, sucking on it just enough, and then Harry was spurting streams of come into his mouth, down his throat, over the insides of his teeth. He swallowed it all - it would’ve been no good to get come all over the theatre - and sat up, wiping his hand on his mouth. Harry stuffed his cock back into his trousers, panting, head tipped back against the chair. 

“You earned that,” Gareth said, settling back in his chair. “Now watch your movie and eat your pick n mix.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17 is John, Kyle, and one of them in a very bad mood


	17. 17. John Stones and Kyle Walker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Time - The Darkness (what a belter of a Christmas song omg)

Sometimes John got really, really grumpy. 

He couldn’t control it. He’d wake up some days and find himself to be furious, angry that he was awake, angry that he existed, angry at whatever it was he had to do that day. He didn’t like feeling that way, and he’d lie there stewing in his own rage and plead with himself to snap out of it, but to no avail - when he was moody, he was moody. That was all there was to it. 

John woke up in one of these moods about a week before Christmas. The football schedule was always gruelling in December and he was tired, bone tired, his eyes feeling dry even though he’d just been asleep for hours. He listened to the piercing ringing of his alarm and stared at the ceiling, angry because it was so cold outside his duvet, angry because it was so dark in the room, angry because all he wanted to do was sleep. 

When he could stand the noise no longer he sat up and aggressively snatched his phone from the charging cable, stabbing his finger at the STOP button and throwing his phone down on the bed. He growled and threw back the sheets, skin prickling in the icy air. He stomped through the dark towards his dresser and stepped on something hard and sharp, crying out in pain and grabbing at his foot. He peered down and saw that he’d left his laptop charging cable lying on the floor and had stood on the plug, and he kicked it, angrier still when it was only nudged an inch across the carpet. 

John yanked the dresser drawers open and pulled out his training gear. He put it on with a scowl and then barged to the bathroom, staring at himself blearily in the mirror. He looked tired, eyes heavy, skin sallow. He didn’t bother shaving, having no motivation or desire to do so, and he brushed his teeth hard enough that his gums bled a little when he spat into the sink. He pissed, washed his hands, and then jogged down the stairs, throwing his shoes on and going out into the dark morning. 

He drove to the training grounds in silence. Normally he couldn’t drive without music but when he felt like this every song only infuriated him, every voice sounded scratchy and irritating, every melody annoying and cheesy. He drove hostilely, a little dangerously; pushing his bumper up behind anyone going the speed limit or under, over taking people with an aggressive stare into their windows. 

John pulled up to the centre and sat in the car for a few minutes in silence, not wanting to go and be around people, not wanting to be social. His mind was going blank, his eyes unfocused, savouring his last minutes of peace, when someone came and knocked at his window. 

Rage came over him like a bucket of water and he clenched his teeth, looking around angrily. Delph was there, smiling cheerily, tapping his wrist in the most irritating display of morning energy John had EVER seen. He looked at Delph blankly, knowing that if he opened the door right then he’d end up saying something terrible and getting into a fight they’d never recover from. John shook his head slightly, as if to say - leave me alone - and Delph frowned, looking confused. 

“Not coming?” He said through the glass, throwing a thumb towards the building. 

John’s toes curled in his shoes. “No. I’m not ready. I was sitting in my car minding my own business. I’ll come in when I’m ready to come in,” he said, a definite edge to his voice. 

Fabian backed away. “Uh - alright,” he said, shaking his head. 

John was only even angrier after that, his mood having an edge of guilt now that he didn’t care for. He got out of his car and slammed the door shut so hard the windows shook. John tucked his chin into his jacket and stomped into the building, willing the day to just be over. 

— 

When he got into the changing rooms the lads were all there already, cheery and loud and ridiculous for that time of the morning. John said hello to no one, just went to his area and took out his football boots, putting them on silently. 

“What’s happening, Pencil!” Mahrez called across the room, and John’s blood ran cold. 

“Give us a song, Johnny boy!” Kompany chimed in, grinning from his seat. “Christmas in a week. Let’s have a John Stones karaoke special.” 

John looked at them like they were imbeciles. “It’s seven in the fucking morning.” He snapped, continuing to tie his laces. 

Someone ooooed and Delph tutted. “Don’t bother speaking to him today, lads. He’s right mardy.” 

John looked at Delph like he wanted to kill him. “Fuck off. What do you think I am, a performing monkey? You want me to put a tutu on and dance around for your entertainment first thing in the morning?” 

Delph looked John calmly up and down and laughed patronisingly. “You in a tutu? I’m good, thanks.” 

John opened his mouth to retaliate but Kyle got there first, standing up and clearing his throat. “Leave it out, lads. Just leave it, yeah?” It was silent, awkward, but then the group continued chatting, Delph shooting a final glare at John. 

Kyle knelt down, looking at John’s face carefully. “Alright?” 

“Fine,” John bit out, looking pointedly in the other direction. 

Kyle said nothing, because John didn’t need words - but he did turn around and rifle through his bag for a fruit polo, taking a red one out the packet and putting it down on John’s knee. When he looked again a few seconds later, it was gone. 

— 

The drills were brutal. The grass was slippery and icy and they could all see their breath in front of their faces. John didn’t smile, didn’t laugh, didn’t get involved in any of the banter anyone was having. Everyone largely left him alone, knowing that when he was like this he shouldn’t be bothered. 

The more he was avoided the lower John felt. It was a catch 22 because if he was spoken to he’d be infuriated and if he was ignored he’d be resentful and sad - in a nutshell, John was useless like this. He shouldn’t have left home. He ruminated on this as he performed the same drill over and over, tears prickling at his eyes. God, this was pathetic, he thought. This was ridiculous. This was utterly - 

John fell into the ground quickly, face colliding with the grass, breath pushed from his lungs. He lay there in quiet disbelief - Zinchenko had just tripped him up. John’s hands began to shake with anger as he pushed himself up, the sound of Oleks’s wheedling laughter ringing out in the awkward silence. 

John got up and rounded on him. “Are you fucking joking me?!” He bellowed, causing everyone on the pitch to come to a stop. “You silly little twat! You absolute fucking clown! Can’t you be serious for one minute of your sad little life?!” 

“What the fuck - excuse me?” Oleksandr said, turning red in the face. “Who do you think you are talking to?” 

“You! The most annoying, ridiculous fucking - “ 

“Hey!” Kyle hissed, jogging up and coming to stand in front of John. “Get fucking inside. Now.” John looked down at him, barely registering his words through his rage. “I said go! Walk it off!” Kyle barked, putting a hand on John’s chest and shoving at him. 

For a brief second John wanted to fight Kyle too, wanted to shove him back, wanted to just light the whole situation on fire, but he didn’t. He looked at Kyle and then one more time at Oleks and turned, heading inside with the back of his neck prickling and his heart thumping. 

He was taking off his football boots when Kyle followed him into the changing room. He said nothing, just sat down beside John and took his own shoes off, reaching for his trainers. John folded his arms and sat in anticipation of Kyle’s next move, unwilling to be the first one to say anything. Kyle stood up and took his car keys from his bag, kicking John gently in the ankle. 

“Come on.” He said, voice firm. 

John looked at him. “Where?” 

“Mine. You can’t be here when you’re like this, you’re going to fuck up the team dynamic. You’re being rude as fuck today and you’re acting like a nightmare.” 

John raised his eyebrows and Kyle continued. 

“It’s the truth, and you need to hear it. Get up, come on. I’ve spoken to the staff. We’re done for the day.” 

He turned and started to leave then. John thought about ignoring him but then he decided better of it and followed, dragging his feet like a petulant child. He got into Kyle’s car with exaggerated movements and stared out the window in silence as Kyle started the car, pulling out of his space and driving down the road. 

It took an hour to get back to Kyle’s house in Sheffield, and by that time John was even more riled up and crabby, filled with sadness and despair and angry energy that he didn’t know what to do with. Kyle turned the engine off and got out the car without a word, going to his front door and stepping into the house. John wasn’t far behind, and he stood in Kyle’s hallway with his arms folded over his chest and a face like thunder. 

“Can I not just have gone home to my own place?” John called out, unsure which room Kyle had disappeared into. “Can I not just have a minute to my fucking self?” 

“Come in here, you bloody idiot,” Kyle called from the living room. 

John walked in and stood in front of Kyle, who was in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips. 

“You don’t want to be on your own, not really. And you shouldn’t be, either.” 

“Piss off.” 

“Stop fighting me and listen to me. It’s okay that you have low days like this, alright? That’s okay, John. It’s okay for you to feel how you feel. Your emotions are okay, and valid, and real. What you can’t do, though, is come into work and take it out on everyone around you. That’s not okay. If you can’t be around people then fine - don’t come to work. If you need special attention and care, that’s fine too. You have to ask for it. You have to know what you want and you have to ask for it.” 

John didn’t realise he was crying until he tried to speak and couldn’t catch breath, standing in the middle of Kyle’s living room and holding himself by the arms like he’d fall apart if he didn’t. “I don’t - don’t know what I need,” he gasped, and Kyle tilted his head to the side exasperatedly. 

“You do know, I need you to know. How can I know but you don’t, eh? How’s that?” 

“What do - what do I want?” He asked, begging Kyle for a lifeline. 

Kyle walked over to him, wiped his cheeks, put a sure hand on his wrist and held tight. “I think just need a little rest, John. Little bit of touch, little less decision making. Do you want me to do that for you? Am I right? Or would you rather go home right now? Just say the words.” 

John looked into Kyle’s eyes and wished he didn’t have to say it but knew he did - if it was to get better, he had to learn to vocalise. He nodded. “Yeah,” he breathed, “I want that. I need that.” 

Kyle let go of his wrist and lead John up the stairs, into his bedroom. He pulled his own shirt off, standing there in only his training leggings, all firm chest and dark tattoos. He pulled the zipper on John’s tracksuit top down and off and then removed his T-shirt for him, over his head and down on the floor in a pile. 

“C’mere,” Kyle said, pulling John against him, hand settling on the back of his neck. “What are you like, Stonesy, eh?” 

John pressed his face into Kyle’s neck and let out a shaky breath, revelling in the feeling of skin on skin. Kyle tugged John to the bed and they climbed in together, under the sheets, John pressed into Kyle’s chest and taking shuddering breaths as he felt his emotions ravage inside his head. Kyle played with his hair whilst John let it out, let go of the pent up rage inside and succumbed to the overwhelming sadness and frustration he was feeling. 

John cried and whimpered and babbled for a bit and then he fell asleep, exhausted and drained and also more relaxed than he had been for days. Kyle let him sleep without moving for a bit, dozing in and out of consciousness himself, the soothing sound of John’s breathing working to relax him too. He disentangled himself after a while, arm numb under John’s weight, and went to the bathroom. He fetched John a glass of water and checked his phone, before coming back upstairs and climbing into bed again. 

When John came around it was getting dark again outside and Kyle was sat up in bed on his phone with the bedside lamp on. John peered around the room as he remembered where he was and why he was there, his cheeks flushed pink from his own body heat, markings on his skin where his face had been pushed against the bed sheets. Kyle put his phone down and passed John the glass of water, which he accepted and slurped from needily. When he was done he handed Kyle the glass back and then rested his head on Kyle’s stomach, waiting for his braincells to kick in, for his body to not be so disorientated. 

He felt better, he knew that instantly. He felt better and he felt bad; bad for his behaviour earlier and bad that Kyle had needed to take him out of training and look after him like this. He was panting a bit from how quickly he’d drank the water and he sighed out in happiness when Kyle put a hand in his hair again, rubbing soothingly, letting his presence be known. 

“Will it all be okay?” John said eventually into the quiet of the room. 

“You need to text Oleksandr and Delph and Pep and you need to apologise. But yeah, John. It’s going to be okay.” 

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Walks,” John said. He pressed a kiss to Kyle’s abdomen. “I don’t know what I’d ever do.” 

“I’m always on your side, John.” 

John sat up then and stretched, his back cracking as he twisted left and right. He looked at Kyle and, for the first time the whole day, smiled. 

“Any chance you could run me a bath?” He grinned, and Kyle rolled his eyes. 

“Take a bath in your own fucking house.” 

“Too far away.” 

“You’re right around the corner, mate. Sheffield isn’t that big, after all.” 

John’s eyes glittered, and he pounced, intending to rough house the cheek right out of Kyle’s terrible mouth. If he ended up kissing it out instead, it didn’t matter. No one ever had to know. 

Sometimes John got really really grumpy, and he was learning that was okay. It was going to be okay - because John had Kyle, and Kyle had John, and that was never going to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18\. Jesse and Marcus: “you’re perfectly welcome to kiss whoever you want.”


	18. 18. Marcus Rashford & Jesse Lingard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day - Wizzard

Jesse wanted a Christmas kiss. 

United were having their legendary Christmas night out and Jesse wanted kiss someone. He’d not had a good kiss for months, and he was craving one - one of those wet, butterfly inducing, feeling-the-phantom-lips-for-days kisses. 

It wasn’t that he couldn’t get a kiss, per se, but more that his schedule and lifestyle rarely saw him in the position to seek one out. There were always plenty of people, lining up on social media and friends of friends trying to set some insta model up with him, but it took the fun out of it for Jesse when he didn’t have to work for it; when it was something he got because of his money and fame and not because the person was actually sexually attracted to him. 

He’d put his plan for Christmas pulling in place weeks before the date of their night out. They were going to go to Panacea after a three course meal and Jesse was bringing a sprig of mistletoe. He was going to approach people in the club, chat, flirt and then produce the mistletoe and seal the deal with a kiss. He thought it was foolproof but Marcus had laughed and rolled his eyes, sending a spark of defensiveness through Jesse. 

“What’s wrong with it?!” He exclaimed, glaring at Marcus. 

Marcus shrugged. “Bit... cheesy, isn’t it?” 

“Pfft. Not at all. It’s classic,” he scoffed, shooting daggers. “You have no imagination, beans.” 

Marcus didn’t council him any further on the matter, and Jesse didn’t ask. 

He didn’t need advice; he was sure this was going to work. Christmas was a time for love and people would be doling out the kisses in the club. He probably didn’t even need the bloody mistletoe, could just manage on charm alone, but he felt like being a bit chintzy and tongue in cheek with it. Victory would be his. 

— 

Jesse’s first knock back of the night came when he produced the mistletoe at the bar of the restaurant they were in for dinner. 

The girl had come up and stood patiently beside Jesse and Marcus, hands folded on the top of the bar and eyes seeking out the barman’s. She was hot, wearing a sparkly dress and high heels, and Jesse looked her up and down once and licked his lips. 

“What are you drinking?” He asked her, flashing his best grin. 

She smiled at him. “Oh, I’m good thanks. I’m getting a round in.” 

“I’ll get it for you,” Jesse said, tapping his card twice. “I can afford it.” 

She looked at Jesse suspiciously, and then at Marcus, who was grinning straight ahead. “Um. You don’t have to - “ 

“I insist, babes. You look incredible, by the way.” 

“Okay. If you’re sure. Thanks?” 

Jesse motioned for the staff to attend them, listening as the woman relayed her table’s order. She had just finished reading the litany of drinks she needed when she turned and saw Jesse holding a piece of a mistletoe above their heads, looking at her with hooded eyes. Her mouth fell open and she frowned, unimpressed. 

“Really? This is harassment,” she hissed, stepping back from Jesse. “I’m here with my girlfriend and I’m really not interested. Leave me alone,” she snapped, turning her body firmly away from Jesse. 

Marcus was shaking with laughter beside him, and Jesse nudged him, mortified. “Fuck off. How was I supposed to know she’s not single?” He whispered, stuffing the mistletoe hastily into his pocket. The girl took her tray of drinks and marched off, leaving Jesse to pay for it which was the least he deserved. 

“She was very, very clearly not interested, Jess,” Marcus said, shaking his head fondly. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’ll work for you. Don’t give up!” He said, patting Jesse on the shoulder and retreating back to their table. 

— 

By the time they got to Panacea, Jesse’s plan had failed a further two times - once in the toilets at the restaurant, where he’d nearly been arrested for coming onto someone at the urinals, and once outside as they waited for their cars to arrive. 

Everyone was pretty drunk but the full team noticed and erupted when he was knocked back by a girl, who had looked at him viciously and said “I’m a City fan. Fuck off.” 

“Oh my fucking god, you’re ridiculous!” Shaw shouted, doubled over with laughter. “Jesse Lingard couldn’t pull a pint!” 

“Shut up,” Jesse muttered, getting into the waiting car. “All of you, shut up.” 

— 

The club was packed, hot, loud. They’d booked a booth in the back corner, so as not to be bothered, and a couple of people had already brought girls into the area, though none of them seemed to have friends that were willing to stand under Jesse’s mistletoe. 

Everyone was drunk - Jesse had taken a few extra shots of tequila to get some Dutch courage for his mission, but all it had done was make him seem goofier, less coordinated. He was sat in the booth watching half the team dance, the other half chatting to girls, with his arms folded and a scowl on. 

Marcus was chatting to a nice girl in the corner, someone who’d come in with a friend of Pogba’s, and he kept stealing glances at Jesse, feeling bad for him. The mistletoe was next to him on the chair looking forlorn and the sight broke Marcus’s heart, it really did. 

“Do you have any friends who’d kiss him under the mistletoe?” Marcus said to Sophie suddenly, tilting his head at Jesse. 

“Mistletoe? God no. That’s so cringe.” 

“I know, I know - but he’s so proud of himself. He thought it was such a good idea.” 

Sophie shrugged. “No one in their right mind would go for that, jeez. Didn’t you tell him?” 

Marcus shrugged. “I tried. He wouldn’t listen.” 

At that moment Jesse sprang up and grabbed his mistletoe, barging past everyone in their booth and disappearing into the dance floor. Marcus wondered if he should alert security but knew that that would do nothing for Jesse’s already sinking chances at finding a kiss. He decided to keep an eye on him as best he could, and prayed that someone, anyone, would just bloody kiss him. 

— 

No one would bloody kiss him. 

Jesse couldn’t understand it. It would be going fine - people would dance with him, flirt back, press themselves up against him promisingly, and then the second they spotted his outstretched arm and the sprig of mistletoe they’d disappear, nowhere to be seen. 

Jesse stood in the middle of the dance floor in disbelief, genuinely astonished that his foolproof plan wasn’t working out for him. He sniffed at his own armpits and blew breath into his hand but he didn’t smell, and his hair and outfit were definitely on point. He didn’t get it. It didn’t make sense. He took out his phone and checked the time - it was 2:30 already, meaning he had half an hour to get his Christmas kiss or face eternal humiliation. 

Jesse looked around desperately, willing someone, anyone to meet his eyes - and then, like some kind of miracle, a pair of hands were on his hips, moving him to the beat, swaying back and forth. He pressed back, pushing his arse into the crotch of this stranger, and noted that he was tall, broad, smelled good - smelled like Marcus. Jesse whipped around and scowled at Marcus, folding his arms across his chest. 

“What are you doing?!” He barked. 

Marcus came forward and put his hands on Jesse’s hips again, moving him in a dance like some kind of puppet. “The lads made bets on whether you’d pull with that mistletoe tonight or not, and I feel bad about it.” 

Jesse let Marcus move him but he didn’t unfold his arms. “And? It’s going to work.” 

“It’s not going to work, Jess. No one’s into mistletoe, it’s 2018.” 

Jesse’s face fell a bit. “Why didn’t you tell me that instead of letting me make a twat of myself?” 

“I did tell you, idiot. Listen. I’ll kiss you under your mistletoe, if you want.” 

Jesse frowned. “What? Why - why would you suggest that? No. I’m not fucking kissing you, that doesn’t count.” 

Marcus spun Jesse around and pulled him close again, their bodies lined up perfectly. He brought his mouth to Jesse’s ear. “Look, you’re perfectly welcome to kiss whomever you want. But you’ve not got long and the guys are going to be dicks about this, trust me. Just saying. Offer’s here if you want it.” 

He was right, Jesse knew. He moved his hips back against Marcus’s and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t hot, that Marcus’s body didn’t feel amazing against his. Fuck it, he thought. A kiss was a kiss. Jesse turned around and raised the mistletoe above their heads, looking at Marcus with one cocked brow. 

“Twenty third time lucky?” Marcus teased, smiling big enough to give himself eye crinkles. He put his hands on Jesse’s waist and brought him closer. 

“Shut up and kiss me, beans,” Jesse scolded. 

Marcus licked his lips and then, gloriously, finally, they were kissing. 

It was exactly the kind of kiss Jesse had been after. It was sexy and sweet, tender but firm. He had the sudden urge to wrap his legs around Marcus’s waist and be lifted, the urge to put his hands down Marcus’s pants and feel out the shape of his cock. It was fireworks and Christmas lights, a can of soda spraying after a hard shake. Marcus pulled away eventually and Jesse remained there with his eyes closed and his lips pursed, not wanting to stop. 

“Come on then, you. Let’s get back to the booth.” 

Marcus steered Jesse triumphantly back to the booth, past all the lads who had just lost their silly bets. Jesse was hopping about, satisfied and gleeful, and Marcus just watched him proudly. 

Shaw nudged Marcus a few moments later. “What happened to that bird you were grafting?” 

Marcus shook his head. “Heard there was a professional footballer roaming the dance floor with a sprig of mistletoe, didn’t I? She didn’t have a look in.” 

Luke rolled his eyes. “You two are weird as fuck.” 

Marcus just smiled, eyes never leaving Jesse. “Whatever,” he said. “Jesse’s happy. That’s all that matters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 19 - Adam, Hendo and a pair of freezing cold hands.


	19. 19. Jordan Henderson & Adam Lallana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby it’s cold outside - Ariana Grande and Mac Miller

The game hadn’t finished until 11pm and the team needed to stick around until 1 in the morning for debriefing, press and other small admin type tasks. It was so close to Christmas and the New Year that the Liverpool staff were scrabbling to get things sorted before the holidays, and that was how Adam and Jordan found themselves driving up the deserted motorway in the AM, heat belching from the car’s dashboard, sleep tugging at their eyes. 

Jordan was driving Adam home - they’d carpool as often as they could - it saved petrol, and it eased Adam’s conscience about global warming and the fate of the planet a bit. The temperature on the car’s little screen said minus 2 degrees celsius and the roads were already glistening with ice outside. Adam tucked his hands deep between his thighs and shuddered, even with the heat of the air conditioning. He had notoriously poor circulation and besides, just knowing how cold it was outside the window was causing him to feel it in his bones. 

Jordan kept stealing concerned glances from the corner of his eye. “Won’t be long, mate,” he said. “I know you’re cold.” 

Adam smiled up at him. “I’m fine, honestly. Just a bit tired.” 

“Fucking ridiculous, like, them having us there till this time of night. We’ve got lives. Families. Places to be.” 

“I know. Could this not be done during the day? Why after a game when we’re all exhausted anyway?” 

“I’m going to talk to someone, this isn’t on. It’s fucking freezing too, god forbid something happened - “ 

And, like some kind of curse, as soon as the words were out of Jordan’s mouth the car shuddered, the engine light flickering up on the dash board. 

“No way,” Jordan said, easing his foot off the gas. “Fuck. Shit!” 

“What is it?” Adam asked, sitting up straighter. “What’s happening?” 

“I don’t know - fuck,” Jordan said, as the car began to slow down. “Oh fuck. The fucking engine’s fucked!” 

He steered into the hard shoulder, and Adam pressed the hazard lights on. The road was empty, eerily quiet, and they pulled over on a dark stretch of road. The car came to a shuddering halt on the asphalt and Jordan threw his head back against the chair, groaning. He slammed his hands into the wheel and let out a loud FUCK before unclipping his seatbelt and getting out from the car, going to the bonnet. He opened it up and peered at the engine but he didn’t have a clue what he was looking for. There was a lot of steam and smoke coming from the car and he knew it wasn’t good, whatever it was. 

Jordan slammed the hood closed again and got back into the car, ensuring the doors were locked. Adam was looking at him, big eyes etched with concern, and Jordan shook his head. “It’s not good,” he said, taking out his phone. “Gonna have to call breakdown. I’m sorry, Ads.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Adam said, frowning at Jordan. “Hey? Don’t apologise. These things happen.” 

Jordan smiled at him thankfully and put the phone to his ear, hoping they could get someone out ASAP. The car was still warm but it was fast getting cold now that the heating was cut and Jordan’s knee jiggled as he waited for the call to connect, already worried about Adam getting frostbite. 

When the AA picked up it was an automated service, and it took ten minutes for Jordan to even be connected to a real person. By that point he was enraged, holding the phone tight enough to whiten his knuckles. He relayed their position and situation to the man on the end of the phone and was told that, due to the late hour, they’d have to call out a mechanic and the wait would be three hours. 

Jordan’s eyes bulged. “THREE HOURS?!” He bellowed, veins in his neck popping. “THREE FUCKING HOURS?” Adam put his hand on Jordan’s arm, trying to calm him, but Jordan shook him off. “I’m not paying you thousands of pounds a year in roadside coverage for a three hour wait! It’s freezing outside and we’re in the middle of nowhere!” 

Adam watched as Jordan grew increasingly wound up, and then he reached for the phone, prising it out of Jordan’s hand and putting it to his own ear. “Hi, sorry about that. Just get someone here as soon as you can, alright? Yeah. Yeah we’ll stay inside the vehicle. Do we have a what? Jordan, do we have a reflective triangle to put at the back of the car? No, we don’t have one. Yeah, the hazards are on. Alright. Alright, thanks very much. Good night.” Adam hung up and handed Jordan his phone. 

Jordan threw it in the back seat and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Fucking ridiculous,” he was muttering. “Fucking - Adam, you’re going to freeze. Let me call a taxi? I’ll phone a taxi and you can go home,” he said, looking at Adam sincerely. 

Adam shook his head vehemently. “No, honestly, I’m not leaving you out here on your own. I’ll be fine, christ. I’m not likely to die from two hours exposure to the cold. It’s not like this is Antarctica.” 

Jordan didn’t look convinced. “Seriously, if something happens - “ 

“Like what? My nose goes black? Come off it, Hendo. I’m not a baby. We can wait here till they come, alright? Alright?” 

Jordan sighed and looked out his window, not wanting to agree, but Adam was pretty determined. “Okay. Fine. But as soon as I see so much as a blue finger you’re going, Adam.” 

Adam rolled his eyes. “Stop.” 

Jordan pulled his collar up around his mouth and folded his arms. “Three hours. AA are fucking shit. I’m going with Greenflag as soon as we get out of here.” 

Adam laughed. “Not their fault it’s half one in the morning,” he said, tucking his legs up on the chair and tipping his seat back a bit. He curled up as small as he could and laid back, letting his eyes flicker shut. “Wake me up if you need me,” he said, yawning. “Wake me up if you start to get tired. One of us should stay awake.” 

Like that he was out, before Jordan even had the chance reply. Jordan had always admired Adam’s ability to fall asleep anywhere, but he wished it wasn’t here, now, in this fast freezing cold car. 

— 

Adam woke up to a shake on his leg. 

“Adam. Ads. Wake up,” Jordan was saying. Adam opened his eyes, confused, disorientated. Jordan’s voice wasn’t coming from the driver’s side, it was coming from the passenger door, and Adam blinked around wildly. The next thing he knew Jordan had his arm under Adam’s legs and one around his back and he was being lifted, out of the seat and into the cold night. 

“Jordan?” Adam said, pressing close to the warm heat of Jordan’s chest. “Are they here?” 

Jordan kicked the door shut and turned to the back passenger door, which was sitting open. He put Adam down in the back and climbed in too, closing the door and pressing the lock button again. “No, they’re not here.” Jordan slid into the seat and bent one leg up on the leather, the other resting on the ground. He pulled Adam into the space between his legs and wrapped his arms around him, rubbing up and down his back. “Your teeth were chattering. You’re freezing,” he said. “You were so cold there. Let me get a heat in you.” 

Adam pushed himself as close as he could get, his head resting on Jordan’s shoulder. He was absolutely fucking freezing, he couldn’t deny it. His fingers were icy, his breath was visible. “What time is it?” He asked quietly. 

“It’s quarter past two. Let me call you a cab, Adam, please - “ 

“No,” Adam said quickly. “No. I’m not leaving you here.” 

“You’re going to freeze,” Jordan said, and he sounded scared. 

“Tell me a joke,” Adam said, reaching down for the hem of Jordan’s jumper. “Make me laugh.” He stuck his hands up Jordan’s shirt and pressed them onto the heat of his chest, marvelling at how warm he was - he was like a furnace, belching out heat. 

Jordan hissed at the coldness of Adam’s fingers, but he didn’t complain. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. If a plane crashes and every single person died, who lived?” 

“What? That’s a riddle,” Adam complained. 

“Just answer it.” 

Adam repeated the question quietly, thought it over. “Fuck - I don’t know. The pilot?” 

“All the married people,” Jordan explained, and Adam could hear the smile in his voice. “Cos all the single people - “ 

“Yeah yeah, smart arse,” Adam replied, sighing onto Jordan’s neck. “Good one.” 

“Your hands are frozen,” Jordan commented, clearly very worried. “Here, give me one here.” 

Adam removed his right hand from under Jordan’s top and Jordan took it, peering in the darkness to see what colour it was. He brought Adam’s hand to his mouth and breathed on it, hot air that felt heavenly against Adam’s skin. 

Adam sighed and melted even further into Jordan’s chest. “How are you so warm?” He asked softly, eyes fluttering closed. “Big bloody electric heater.” 

Jordan laughed. “Always ran warm, me. Saves a shit ton on heating bills.” He blew out another breath onto Adam’s fingers. 

Adam let out another sigh. “That feels nice, Henderson,” he said. “Any way I could climb inside your body until the AA come?” 

Jordan laughed. “Yeah. Just come on in,” he joked, opening his mouth and putting a couple of Adam’s fingers in the space. 

Adam sniggered and without thinking he put his fingers down onto Jordan’s tongue. Jordan instinctively closed his mouth around them and - oh. Oh. 

Adam’s eyes opened and he held his breath. Jordan pushed his tongue against the fingers as he pulled them out of his mouth by Adam’s wrist, knowing what he was doing and what it must’ve felt like but somehow unable to stop himself. Adam’s fingers tasted salty against Jordan’s tongue, and he was suddenly terrified Adam could hear the way his heart had just sped up through his chest. 

When his fingers were no longer in Jordan’s mouth Adam sat up carefully, on his knees on the back seat and still framed by Jordan’s legs. He peered at Jordan through the darkness and looked at his wide eyes, at his ajar mouth. Carefully he pulled his wrist from Jordan’s hand and brought the fingers back to Jordan’s lips, circling them once with his wet fingers before pushing in again. Jordan sucked them - Adam nearly moaned out loud - and allowed it when Adam started slowly fucking his fingers in and out of Jordan’s mouth, his eyes transfixed on the look of Jordan’s lips around him. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, and Jordan blinked at him, never stopping what he was doing. Adam removed his fingers and wiped them against his trousers, chest heaving. “Fuck. Okay. Fuck.” 

Jordan was silent, his hands lying uselessly at his side. Adam’s cheeks were burning and for the first time in a while he could feel his nose again. He cleared his throat. 

“That’s one way - I mean, it would definitely keep us both warm. We might - it might be dangerous if we don’t.” 

Jordan still hadn’t said anything, was still staring at Adam. He raised his eyebrows. “You’re right,” he said, and his voice was croaky. “If we - it’ll heat the car up. It’s only to keep us warm.” 

Adam nodded eagerly. “Yeah, of course. It’s just for warmth. If we got pneumonia now we could be in big trouble, for the season and that.” 

“If you like - if you rode me, that would definitely get your heart up.” 

Adam could hardly breathe. “Yeah. I think that’s a good idea.” 

They sat there for a few seconds, still, unsure - and then Adam leaned forward and put his hand on Jordan’s crotch. He was hard, which was promising, amazing. He massaged Jordan’s hard dick in wonder, amazed that they’d been friends for so long and yet he’d never touched it, at least certainly not like this. 

“Shall we do foreplay?” Jordan husked out. 

Adam looked up at him. “Probably, yeah. What do you - do you want a blowjob?” He felt Jordan’s dick twitch when he said that, and it almost winded him. 

Jordan considered it. “Just like, space-wise. Might be good if we sixty-nined? Just saves space, know what I mean. Saves - “ 

“Yeah, no. You’re right. Okay, let’s - “ Adam climbed off the seat and crouched in the footwell as Jordan lay down on his back and pulled his trousers down. Adam did the same, pulling his trousers all the way off. His cock was hard too, embarrassingly so, but he was only impressed with himself considering the temperature of the car. “Shall I just?” 

“Yeah,” Jordan said, dragging his eyes away from Adam’s dick. “Yeah, just swing your leg over.” 

Adam did so, feeling a bit self conscious and weird. This was strange, what they were doing. Maybe they should rethink - and then Jordan was mouthing at Adam’s balls, positioning his cock down so he could get his lips around it, and any doubts disappeared from Adam’s brain. He groaned, a breathy one. He’d never felt so electric during a blow job - he’d never felt so keenly every flick of tongue, every press of finger. Adam fell into the feeling, pleasure licking up and down his spine. He remembered Jordan’s own cock after a few moments and he leaned down, picking it up - it was heavy, thick, exactly like its owner. Adam had never given a blowjob but he gave it his best shot, thinking about what he liked himself. Jordan moaned at one point and Adam nearly came just from that alone. He was in heaven, even in this icy car - he didn’t think he had ever been more turned on his life. That was until Jordan started to trail his fingers over Adam’s hole, however. Adam’s back was ramrod straight, his mouth frozen around Jordan’s dick. 

“Is this okay?” Jordan said, his accent thicker than normal. 

Adam tried to nod and say yes at the same time and he nearly choked himself. He came off Jordan’s cock and said “yes, god, yes,” panting, pressing back against Jordan’s finger as he gently, carefully, pushed it in. 

Jordan never thought he’d ever get to feel Adam’s body from the inside and he was absolutely fascinated, entranced by the soft tight pull of Adam’s muscles around his fingers; disbelieving at the way it was making Adam breath like he’d just run a marathon. Jordan started working his fingers in and out carefully, like he would prep a girl, and splayed one hand out on Adam’s back, under his shirt, feeling the temperature of his skin. 

Adam was holding onto Jordan’s cock like a life raft, completely enveloped by the sensation of being fingered. He didn’t realise how tight he was holding on until Jordan hissed at one point and laughed a bit, saying “not so tight, Ads.” 

Adam let go, pushed himself up a bit. He looked over his shoulder. “Now? Shall I ride it now?” 

Jordan assessed his handy work and then nodded, pressing a kiss to the bottom of Adam’s back. “Yeah. Ride me now, if you like. Go on.” 

Adam got up and spun around, throwing his leg over Jordan’s hip. He put a hand on Jordan’s chest for leverage and took his cock with the other, lining it up carefully. Jordan wasn’t breathing, utterly mesmerised by what he was seeing. Then Adam was sinking down, the head pushing into him, both of them feeling things they’d never felt in their lives. It was strange, being filled up like that. He sank all the way down, like a fucking trooper, and sat still on Jordan’s body for a bit, adjusting. 

Jordan put his hand gently on Adam’s lower stomach, finger tips pressing down gently. “I’m inside you,” he breathed, and then wished he hadn’t - that was maybe too gay, too romantic for what this was supposed to be - but it made Adam moan, made him clench down around Jordan. 

“You’re inside me,” he echoed. “We’re connected.” 

Then he started to move. He raised himself up a bit and then brought himself back down, feeling every inch of Jordan more intimately than he ever dreamed he would. Jordan watched Adam fuck himself on his cock and it took every inch of self control not to talk dirty, not to comment on how good he looked or how tight he was, not to blow his load right then and there. Instead he put his hands on Adam’s hips, on his thighs, and said “You’re nice and warm now.” 

Adam was completely gone to the sensation and he frowned. “What?” He said, breathily. 

“You’re nice and warm,” Jordan said again, louder. He wanted to keep talking so, so badly. 

Adam smiled ethereally. “Oh. Yeah. I’m warm now. Thank you.” 

“S’okay,” Jordan breathed, putting a hand around Adam’s cock and jacking him off. “That’s what friends are for.” 

Adam kept riding it, not stopping for a second. His head was tilted back and he was humming and sighing and breathing loudly, both his hands flat on Jordan’s chest as he bounced. 

“Doing on Christmas Day?” Jordan said, because he couldn’t stay quiet, he just couldn’t. “Ads? What you doing on Christmas Day?” 

“What? Oh,” Adam said, his voice faint and distant. “Christmas - fuck, yeah, touch my balls again - sister’s house,” he got out. “Going her house.” 

“Cool.” 

Jordan felt it when Adam started getting tired. He felt the strokes become smaller, could see the strain in Adam’s thighs. Adam slowly dropped down onto Jordan’s chest, Jordan’s cock still in his arse. “Exhausted,” he said, quietly. “Can you make me come, Hendo? I want to come now.” 

Jordan had to bite his tongue. He put his hands on Adam’s hips. “Okay,” he answered. “Yeah.” 

He started fucking into Adam, feet pushing against the door and the floor to give him strength, cock shaking on every drag. 

“Why are you so quiet?” Adam gasped into Jordan’s chest. “You’re not normally so quiet.” 

Jordan swallowed. “Want me to talk?” He said, half hoping Adam would say no so that he wouldn’t say any of the things he was about to. 

“Love it when you talk. Love how vocal you are.” 

“You have no idea, Adam, how good this feels. You have no fucking idea how tight and hot and good you feel. I don’t know how I’m ever going to be near you again and not want to fuck you until you can’t walk.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“Riding me like that, back of the car, even though you’re so tired. What a fucking machine you are. You’ve made me so hard. You’ve made me hotter than I’ve ever been - “ 

“I’m going to come - “ 

“I want you to come. I want to make you come. Come on my cock, Adam, I’m telling you. That’s an order, as your captain.” 

Adam bit down on Jordan’s jumper, his hand snaking to his own cock and wrapping around it - once, twice, and he was coming, coming in hot strings, moaning desperately against Jordan. 

Jordan started drilling him harder, intent on making himself come too. It didn’t take long - he’d been ready for a while - and he was coming inside Adam, holding his hips so hard he was probably going to leave bruises, eyes squeezed shut and Adam’s name on his tongue. 

They lay there without moving for a while. The windows on the car were all fogged up and it was certainly not freezing anymore, that was for sure. Adam moved first, taking himself off Jordan and wincing at the lack of contact. He took off one of his socks and used it to wipe at the come that was somehow everywhere - he hoped the breakdown people wouldn’t be inspecting the inside of the car too closely. Adam pulled his trousers back on and Jordan pulled his up and they sat in the back seats quietly, not saying anything. 

“Thanks, mate.” Adam said eventually. “Thought I was going to lose my fingers there. You’re a legend.” 

“Any time. Any - “ A set of headlights lit up the inside of the car, and they both turned around and peered out of the back window. The breakdown recovery was there, and not a moment too soon. Jordan patted Adam on the thigh and went to exit the car. “Let’s get you home, shall we?” 

Adam stayed sitting in the car for a beat longer, unsure if he’d even be able to walk without waddling. He heard Jordan greet the mechanic, and he scrubbed a hand down his face, before going outside to join them. 

They carpooled to work for a number of reasons, but there was definitely another one now. Jordan would never ever let Adam’s fingers fall off. He was just a selfless type of guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 is going to be my last reader X - i’ll Get it to you ASAP!


	20. 20. Reader X John Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) - Olivia Holt

Your favourite time of year was Christmas, but this year, things weren’t going to plan. 

It wasn’t that Christmas wasn’t all around; that the tree wasn’t up and the presents weren’t bought. It wasn’t that you didn’t wake up every morning in your Christmas jammies and reach for your phone to play Christmas music whilst you got ready, shuffling over to your advent calendar in your elf slippers that were really hard to walk in. 

No, the problem was that the person you loved above all else was too busy for you. 

You understood that December was an incredibly busy, gruelling period in football and it wasn’t like John could help that he was so exhausted, but it got to you when he came home after a game or a training session and dragged himself off silently to shower, falling asleep on the couch or in bed before you’d even had a chance to tell him about your day. You’d tug the covers up over him and sigh sadly, telling yourself that tomorrow he’d have time. Tomorrow would be better. He wouldn’t be so tired after a good night’s sleep. 

Except it never transpired that way. He was stressed and exhausted and distant, and it was really, really sucking the fun out of the holiday period. You cried about it to your mum and your friends and they all said the same thing - talk to him. You did consider it but you didn’t want to make him feel guilty or upset - it wasn’t his fault that he felt how he did. You’d just have to work around it. 

The Friday before Christmas you decided to take matters into your own hands. John was finished training at 5 that day and would be home around 7; which was plenty time to do some of your favourite Christmas activities. He was already out the door when you woke up and you leapt out of bed with a spring in your step, excited to put your plan in action. 

After preparing all day the house was warm and cosy, waiting for John to arrive back. You’d lit Christmas candles and turned on all the fairy lights, casting warm hues across the house. Love Actually was paused and ready to go on the TV and there was a golden lemon chicken crackling in the oven, along with a tray of asparagus, garlic and red onion baking in balsamic vinegar. You’d prepared a couple of glasses of Baileys that were laying in wait on the table before the TV and you were wearing a pair of John’s boxers, a Christmas jumper and a thick pair of his white socks (you’d applied that Fenty glow to your legs to get them glistening in the light around the room. It was all in the details). You tied a red ribbon around your pony tail and waited on the couch excitedly, thrilled at the prospect of finally getting to do something festive and cosy with the love of your life. 

Seven o’clock came and went and John still wasn’t home. You were beginning to feel a bit anxious, worried that maybe something had happened to him. You checked your phone but there was nothing, no text or call. You told yourself to relax; there was probably bad traffic. He was on his way to you. 

At eight o’clock you called him, peering out the window and really getting worried. His phone went to voicemail and your hands started to tingle, fear coming over you and suffocating you like a wet towel. There was no sign of him, no word. You took the food out of the oven and set it down on the counter before pacing up and down the kitchen, your appetite firmly destroyed. 

At 9 you were all out panicking. You texted Kyle Walker with shaking hands, the worst case scenario circling your brain again and again. John, in hospital, after a brutal car crash; John lying in the street after being mugged; John slumped in the showers at the city training ground after having a heart attack. Kyle texted you back pretty quickly, and your heart sank. 

KW: he went out with some of the lads for drinks love im sorry he should’ve texted you do you want me to phone one of them and tell him to get in contact? 

The words on the screen blurred as tears came to your eyes. You couldn’t believe it - you were devastated, humiliated. You texted Kyle back that you had forgotten, no phone calls were necessary, say hi to Annie, and then you blew out the candles, going to bed and pulling the covers over your head. You cried and cried until you fell asleep. 

— 

When you woke up the next morning John was in bed next to you and the room stank of alcohol. He was lying on his back, arms tucked under the pillow. His clothes were in a pile on the floor and you wanted to set them on fire. You hadn’t heard him come in and you were glad - if you’d seen him last night you had no idea what you’d have done. You sat up and scrubbed at your eyes, head sore after your tears last night. 

John always looked so peaceful when he was asleep, all pillow lips and dark lashes and translucent eyelids. You scowled at him. 

“Stones.” You barked, poking him in the shoulder. “Wake up.” 

He frowned in sleep, stretching out one of his ridiculously long arms and feeling around for you. You slapped at his hand and he withdrew it quickly, opening his eyes. 

“What - “ 

“Wake up. I’m mad at you.” 

Confusion crossed his face. “What? What did I do? What time is it?” 

“You don’t know what you did?” You felt your voice cracking, and you willed yourself not to cry. “You really don’t know?” 

He sat up, looking at you like he was genuinely baffled. He looked so soft and sleepy and it was making it hard for you to stay angry, so you stood up out the bed, glaring at him with your hands on your hips. 

“I’m sorry - I know you hate it when I don’t know... but I don’t know. Did I do something stupid when I got in? I’m sorry, babe, I was so drunk - come here - “ 

“We had plans! We were supposed to be together last night! I cooked you a fucking chicken!” You shouted, and the tears were coming, hot angry tears, tears of frustration. “You went out drinking and didn’t even fucking text me! I had to message Kyle like a loser and have him feel sorry for me. I’m fucking mortified, John!” 

Realisation dawned on his face and he looked pale. “Oh my god - I forgot, I totally forgot - I thought that was next week, oh - “ 

“Next week?! It’s not even Christmas next week!” You shouted, turning and walking to the wardrobe. You pulled out some bottoms and a clean t shirt and started hastily pulling them on, knowing you had to get out of the house. “You’ve not paid one bit of attention to me the whole month. I don’t remember the last time we just hung out. This was my favourite time of year and you’ve ruined it John!” 

His face crumpled and he climbed out of the bed, approaching you, his eyes shining. 

“No, fuck off! Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me. It’s too late. It’s not good enough.” 

“I am so, so sorry - please, please let me - “ his voice broke and he was crying too, “please let me fix it. I feel terrible. I wasn’t even thinking - “ 

You shoved past him, even though all you wanted to do was fall into him and have him pet your hair and tell you it was going to be okay. You snatched your phone off the night stand and shoved your feet into the closest pair of shoes. 

“I’m going out. Do whatever you want, maybe Ben Mendy’s back on it today too. Have a good Christmas, John.” 

He let out a sob and called your name as you tore out of the bedroom, down the stairs and out into your car. You were crying uncontrollably and you only made it down the street before you had to pull over. You cried for ages, ugly snotty wailing tears. You were angry but also felt bad, bad for the way he was so sad, for how confused he’d looked. Maybe he really had forgotten, maybe you were being too hard on him. When your eyes had stopped leaking you started the car again and drove in the direction of your best friend’s house, hoping she was awake. 

Nicola wasn’t up when you got to her house, but you rang the doorbell incessantly anyway - you needed her. She pulled open the door in her pyjamas, squinting into the sunlight. She took one look at you and panicked. 

“Oh my god - what’s wrong?!” She exclaimed, pulling you into the house. 

In her arms you started crying again, and she lead you to the sofa, holding you and cooing soothingly whilst you told her through tears about John, about last night. Nicola’s boyfriend came downstairs a while later looking concerned and she ordered him to go and make two cups of tea. 

She rubbed your back and let you cry it out, then got you some tissues and wiped at your face. Her boyfriend put the tea down in front of you and she told you to take a sip - it was sugary, which you hated, but she insisted your body probably needed it. You gulped at it quickly and then found yourself with the hiccups, and you’d never felt more ridiculous - it was only then that you realised you were wearing two different shoes. You looked like a real mad woman. 

You began to calm down eventually, your heart beat regulating. Nicola was still holding you comfortingly and you felt like you could take the world’s longest nap. She looked at you seriously, and sighed. 

“Now listen,” she began. “This is unacceptable. Completely careless, thoughtless and dickish behaviour. He owes you a massive apology and has a lot of making up to do. But, I will also say, I don’t think he’s done it on purpose. I’ve never seen anyone love someone like he loves you, right? He worships you. He’s been an idiot, but it doesn’t mean he’s a bad boyfriend or a bad person.” You were crying again, for some ridiculous reason. “It’s going to be okay, alright? If I know him he’s going to do whatever it takes to make this up to you. He’s not the kind of guy to just brush this under the carpet.” 

You nodded, listening. “I love you,” you said, and she hugged you tight. “Can I go and lie down for a bit?” You said, wiping at your nose. “I’m drained. Haven’t stopped crying.” 

She smiled. “Course. You can lie down in the spare room. Me and Chris aren’t busy today, we’re hanging around. Go on, go lie down.” 

You stood up and finished the last of your tea, putting the mug down on the table and then taking yourself upstairs. Your phone was still out in the car but you didn’t care; it could stay out there. You just needed to be on your own for a bit. 

— 

You woke up to Nicola shaking your shoulder gently, kneeling by the bed. You were disorientated and your head really was throbbing. 

“He’s at the door,” she was saying gently, and it took a moment for you to realise who she was talking about. “Shall I tell him to fuck off?” 

You sat up and put a hand to your head. “No. No, let him in. Send him up with a couple of paracetamol, will you?” 

She smiled. “Course.” 

You stretched, checked your wrist watch. You’d been asleep for two hours and it was past noon. Your heart thrummed quietly as you waited for him to come to you. You heard his feet on the stairs and you wanted to throw up, honestly. Then the door was opening and there he was, holding a packet of pain killers and a glass of water. His eyes were puffy and his hair wild, fluffy and unbrushed. He hadn’t shaved and he was pale. Your heart ached. He sat down on the edge of the bed and handed you the medicine, which you took. You gulped at the glass of water and then set it down on the night stand. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, voice scratchy. “I am a fucking idiot. I didn’t realise I was doing it. I totally forgot about our plans and I’m sorry. It’s unforgivable that I didn’t text you - it’s no excuse but the lads took my phone, all our phones went into a bag so we could all be present - it was Mendy’s idea, he’s a fucking idiot. Please let me make this up to you. I love you so much. I love you so fucking much.” 

He was crying again and it broke your heart. You could see how sorry he was, that he hadn’t done it intentionally. You looked at him carefully. 

“You’ve made me feel invisible, John, and it’s not okay. I understand that you forgot about last night, but you have to realise that you’ve not been present for weeks. You’re tired and I get that, I do. But I’m a human being too. I have feelings too.” 

He was crying like a child, lips pouted and eyes wide. “Are you finishing with me?” He asked quietly, and that was it - you were done being angry. 

“Of course not,” you breathed, finally moving across the bed and climbing into his lap. “Of course I’m not. I love you,” you said, holding him as he cried into your neck, holding onto you tight. 

“I’m such an idiot!” He kept wailing, and you put your fingers in his hair, pressing kisses to his shoulder. 

“No you aren’t. You’re not an idiot. I love you,” you repeated, because you’d never get tired of being able to say that to him. “I love you so bad.” 

He kissed you then, and it was needy and urgent and insistent. He laid you back down against the pillows and kissed at your jaw, at your neck, along your collarbone. He pressed his hips into yours and you realised he was hard. 

“You’re hard right now?” You asked fondly, grinning. 

He kept kissing you, bit at your earlobe. He wasn’t laughing. “Always make me hard,” he mumbled. 

Your own senses started to come alight, surrounded by him. You were turned on by the smell of his skin and the need he was laving on you; his undivided attention. “You sure you want to do this?” You asked. “Sure you wouldn’t rather be at the pub watching Kevin De Bruyne spray egg nog out his nose?” John paused, unsure if you were serious. He looked pained and you laughed to show you were joking, kissing him again. 

He rolled his hips down onto yours again, and again - he’d be happy just to dry hump to orgasm, he’d always been weird like that - and you put your hand down his pants, toes curling at the way it made his breath hitch. 

“Nicola - will she be annoyed?” He whispered. 

“She owes me. She’s had sex in my house many times over the years. Multiple times with me in the bed.” 

He laughed and it was breathy, wispy. “I love you,” he said quietly, just for you to hear. “I love you and I’m never going to hurt you again.” 

“I know, John,” you said. “I know. I love you too.” 

— 

John made dinner for you later that evening and you watched Love Actually in your matching Christmas jumpers, Baileys in hand. He wouldn’t let go of you in bed that night, not even for a second, and you fell asleep just how you should’ve done the night before - cuddled up, happy and in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 21 - Stonesford (I don’t remember the plot, but will try and have it written and posted by the end of the day!)


	21. 21. John Stones & Jordan Pickford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’re a Mean One, Mr Grinch - Tyler The Creator (this song fucking slaps)

Jordan and John were in the middle of a very, very hot sex session when John asked Jordan for a favour. 

He’d been eating Jordan out for the last 53 minutes and Jordan was a complete wreck, all boneless and whimpery and sweaty. John had been thinking of it for a while and he knew he had to get Jordan to the edge of sanity before he’d agree to it. He removed his mouth from between Jordan’s cheeks but kept his fingers working in and out of him, propping his head up on his free hand. 

“Joooordaaaan?” He said, drawing out the vowels. Jordan hummed in response. John grinned. “Do something for me?” 

“What?” Jordan said, sounding so out of it. “What do you want?” 

John swallowed. “Put a City Christmas jumper on and let me fuck you?” 

Jordan stopped panting and looked around, confused. “Eh?” 

“One of the City - “ 

“Yeah, I heard you. Okay? If that’s what you want,” Jordan said, dropping his head back down. “Just hurry up, right? I want to come.” 

John took his fingers out of Jordan and jumped up gleefully, skidding across the room to his drawers. He pulled open the top one, rifled through it and came up empty. John opened the second one next and went through it like he was on a drug raid - and there, near the back, folded up and smelling faintly of washing powder was his blue Manchester City Christmas sweatshirt. 

He brought it over and helped Jordan into a sitting position. John gripped his chin and kissed him once, twice. He took the jumper and popped it over Jordan’s head. It was snug but it looked great, Jordan looked great - John beamed at him. He pushed Jordan down against the pillows and kissed him again, dirtily, their hard cocks pressing against each other. 

John pulled back a moment later and reached around for his phone. He stood up, legs spread over Jordan’s, and pulled out his camera. Jordan blinked up and him dreamily and smiled, looking like an angel surrounded by their white sheets. Once he had a few photos John came back down, lined up his dick, and started giving Jordan the orgasm he’d so eagerly requested. 

— 

They were lying still afterwards, quietly coming down from their highs. 

John was on his phone looking at the pictures he’d taken earlier and grinning menacingly. Jordan looked at him and raised an eyebrow. 

“Weird how Christmas gets you off.” 

“Oh no, Jord. This is not for holiday cheer. This is for blackmail.” 

Jordan sat up a bit. “Excuse me?” 

John laughed wickedly. “Oh yes. Next time you piss me off, the Internet gets to see you in a City jumper.” 

Jordan grabbed John’s phone and looked at the pictures more closely. He looked blissed out in them, like he was high - it was very clear, Jordan thought, that he was having sex in them. John hadn’t gotten his naked bottom half in the photos but the flush on his cheeks, the black depth of his pupils - that was a sex glow. He pressed the trash can, and deleted the photos. 

“Fuck off. Clearly getting shagged in them pictures, that’s not funny. I’ve deleted them.” He chucked the phone back at John and pulled the jumper off himself. 

“I made copies,” John said, and Jordan glared at him. 

“Tell me you’re joking.” 

“Nope. Don’t get on my bad side!” John said in a sing song voice, hopping out of bed and heading off to shower. “Or Instagram gets it!” 

Jordan sat in suspended stillness, and then he shook his head. John would never do that. Jordan wasn’t even going to encourage his silly joke. 

— 

The next time John threatened the pictures it was February and Jordan was refusing to take the bins out. 

“Remember those City pictures?” John said, and Jordan’s blood ran cold. 

“You wouldn’t.” 

“‘Everton star wears Man City jumper to bed’, I can see the headlines now.” 

“Fuck off,” Jordan grumbled. “Fucking twat.” 

He took the bins out anyway. Just in case. 

— 

Jordan wouldn’t budge on Chinese over chippy. 

“We’re getting a Chinese. I want barbecue chips,” he insisted, unwilling to change his mind. 

“I really want a fish supper, Jord, we had a Chinese last time - “ 

“I’m getting a Mei Sing and that’s that. I don’t want a fucking battered cod.” 

John tapped around on his phone for a minute, and Jordan thought he’d won - until John stuck the phone in Jordan’s face and he saw photos of himself, in the middle of a sex session, wearing that blue fucking jumper. Jordan looked off into the air like he was on The Office and clenched his teeth. 

“Red sauce or vinegar on your chips, Stonesy?” 

— 

The straw that broke the camel’s back came when John refused to relinquish the bed sheets in the middle of the night. 

Jordan nudged him nicely enough, a gently hand on his shoulder. “John. Babe. You’ve got the covers,” he whispered, freezing cold in the darkness of the bedroom. “I’m so cold.” 

“Pssoff,” John mumbled, running the words into one. 

“Don’t be a dick. Give me some sheets,” Jordan insisted, trying to pull them from the cocoon John had made. 

“Fuck off,” John slurred. “Or ‘ll put that pic on insta.” He rolled over again and fell asleep, and Jordan sat there, furious, wide awake. 

He’d had enough. John thought he was smart, but when it came to things like this, Jordan was smarter. 

Game on, he decided. 

— 

He met up with Marcus in a Tesco car park to do the deal. Marcus didn’t ask any questions, which Jordan was grateful for. They made their exchanges swiftly, a quick handshake, and then they were off in their separate cars, speeding off back to their own lives. 

Jordan took his tool into the house stuffed under his shirt and stashed it upstairs, under his pillow. John was down in the kitchen cooking something and Jordan cracked his knuckles, his shoulder blades, before going downstairs. 

Showtime. 

He sauntered into the kitchen, oozing confidence and command. John looked up at him and double took. 

“Jordan?” 

“Alright, Stonesy?” 

Jordan could see the thrill run down John’s spine. “Hello.” 

“I’ve been thinking about you. All day. Whimpering and hard and fucked over that table.” He pointed at the dinner table, which was laid for their evening meal. “I’ve had a semi since ten this morning.” 

John swallowed. “Making spaghetti,” he said dumbly, and Jordan smirked. 

“I want to eat Spaghetti off your stomach. Flat enough for it.” 

John blushed. “Christ.” 

“Go and sit on your knees in the corner, will you? Sit down and wait for me. I’ll finish your spaghetti.” 

John looked unsure. Jordan approached him from behind and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. He snaked his hand round the front and grabbed a hold of John’s cock, working at it. John tipped his head back onto Jordan’s shoulder, his hand stilling over the pot of sauce he was stirring. 

“Knees. Now.” 

John sighed but then he went, dropping down onto the little mat they kept there just for that purpose. Jordan didn’t have a clue how to make spaghetti so he turned the oven off, leaving everything as it was, and stood there, watching John’s breathing slow over time. It never took him long to drop when he was on his knees, never needed much time to become pliant and malleable. 

After a while Jordan went up the stairs, fetching his weapon. He brought it down and grinned at it, at the brightness of the material. John had no idea what was coming to him. 

Jordan came back into the kitchen and stood over John. He was breathing slowly, a sure sign that he was relaxed and in his own head. His cock was hard under his trousers. Jordan touched him on the head. 

“Up,” he said, helping John to his feet. “Table.” 

John went and bent over it fluidly, blinking with half lidded eyes and his bottom lip between his teeth. Jordan pulled his trousers down quickly and kissed the back of John’s thighs; his bum cheeks. He spat on a finger and pressed it inside John, as far as he could. He started fingering him slowly, enough to feel torturous - just the right amount of friction, no where near the right amount of speed. 

When John was moaning freely Jordan removed his fingers and pulled John up again, kissing him on the mouth. He pulled at John’s top and threw it away on the floor, and then he reached into his back pocket for the thing Marcus had so kindly lent him. John was fucked out and spacey and didn’t even think twice when Jordan placed it over his head, uttering soothing assurances about how beautiful he was, how amazing. 

John put the new shirt on and didn’t even look down at it, such was his trust. Jordan kissed him again and then pulled out his phone, whispering “Say cheese.” 

John looked at the camera happily and then it seemed to dawn on him. He looked down and realised, much too late, that Jordan had put him in a fucking Man United shirt. A glaring, fire engine red, authentic Man United shirt. John looked at the number - it was fucking Rashford’s. He whipped it off like it had burned him, coming back down to earth with a shuddering halt. 

“You absolute fucking monster - “ 

“Delete that fucking Christmas jumper picture! Now!” 

“Jordan!” 

“Fucking delete it or the world sees you parking the bus ready for my cock up your arse.” 

“Good one.” 

“Now. Do it now.” 

John stared at Jordan, and Jordan stared back. Neither of them blinked. 

“Fine! Fuck sake, Jord. Fine.” John stomped across the kitchen and grabbed up his phone, frowning. “I’d never have actually posted it, fuck sake. Do you think I’m stupid?” 

“I’m fucking sick of you holding it over my head. Get it to fuck.” 

John tapped around, grumbling under his breath. Jordan waited patiently. 

“Done. They’re gone. You delete those.” 

Jordan did so, holding up his phone so John could see. It was awkward then, quiet. John looked around the kitchen, bollock naked, and Jordan picked up Marcus’s shirt from the floor. 

“Am I getting fucked or not?” John said eventually, and Jordan had to laugh. 

“Why not?” He said, crooking a finger at John. “Get over here, Rashford.” 

John rolled his eyes, but he went. They kissed and got back into the swing of it, back into their roles. Neither of them knew that the other had saved one last copy of the photos, but it didn’t matter - they’d never betray each other like that. It was totally for personal use. 

Or so they’d swear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22 - dele, eric and some fluffy baking content


	22. 22. Eric Dier & Dele

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonderful Christmastime - Paul McCartney

Dele knocked on Eric’s door and waited, bouncing on the balls of his feet in the bitter winter chill. There was an awful grey drizzle in the air, the kind that didn’t warrant an umbrella but definitely got you wet, all damp and cold and uncomfortable. London was monotone and dull that day - three whole days before Christmas - and Dele wasn’t feel very festive, not with his current surroundings. 

He’d voiced this to Eric via whatsapp who had told him to come round; as he had something planned. Dele couldn’t think of a good reason not to so he jumped in the car and drove over, praying the plan didn’t involve Eric asking Dele to wrap presents for him. 

Dele pushed the doorbell and knocked again when he was still standing there thirty seconds later. He tried the door handle and it was unlocked, which was stupid of Eric but great for Dele. He opened the door and called out a hello, shuffling into the heat of Eric’s home. 

“Hello?” Came a voice from the direction of the kitchen. “Del?” 

“Yeah, it’s me!” He shouted back, toeing off his shoes. 

“In the kitchen!” Eric called. 

Dele removed his coat and padded on socked feet towards Eric. The house smelled sweet and homey, warm and nostalgic. Dele sniffed at the air. 

“What’s that smell? Are you making cookies?” He said, but he answered his own question when he made it to the kitchen and saw Eric, wearing an apron, covered in flower and kneading dough. “Wow,” he smiled, the dogs jumping up from Eric’s feet to come and greet him. 

“Hey!” Eric called happily, reaching around for a rolling pin. “How you doing?” 

Wonderful Christmastime by Paul McCartney was playing and the dogs were both wearing Christmas jumpers. Dele took in the sights of the room fondly, suddenly overwhelmed with childhood memories of excitement and giddiness, that unshakeable energy kids had around this time of year. 

“This is... some production,” he grinned, and Eric smiled. 

“Wash your hands and you can help me with these. First batch is already in the oven.” 

Dele wandered to the sink and rolled his sleeves up. “What kind you making?” 

“Sugar cookies,” Eric answered. “The best kind.” 

Dele came to stand beside Eric when his hands were clean, watching as Eric’s own hands dealt with the dough deftly; expertly. It always fascinated Dele how Eric could be so masculine and aggressive on the football field but at times like this, in his house away from all the eyes, he was soft and domestic. Dele wanted to curl up on the sofa with a cup of tea and have Eric read to him. 

“Grab that cutter there,” Eric motioned with his chin, “and start cutting out shapes.” 

Dele did as he was told, cutting little stars out of the rolled dough Eric had prepared. Eric turned to the oven and fished out the batch he’d already prepared. They smelled amazing and Dele’s stomach rumbled when they passed him on their way to the cooling rack across the room. 

“See City get smashed by Palace?” Dele asked Eric nonchalantly. 

Eric laughed. “Yeah. That Townsend goal was beautiful.” 

“How shit is Stonesy in mid?” 

“Don’t even start. I’m going to roast him alive when I see him next.” 

Eric took the bits of cookie Dele had made and spaced them out on a baking tray. Dele watched him work with a faint smile and then he reached out and wiped a bit of flour off Eric’s brow. 

“Oh,” Eric said, looking up. “Thank you.” 

“S’alright,” Dele smiled. “Always here to take good care of you.” 

Eric blushed, and Dele had to turn around to hide how big his grin had gotten. 

When the first batch of cookies had cooled down enough Eric allowed Dele to be in charge of icing them. Dele recounted all his favourite Christmas memories whilst he worked and Eric listened on in quiet wonder, wishing strangely that he’d been present in every happy moment of Dele’s life so far. 

When Dele grew bored of icing he hopped up on the counter and let Eric finish the job, his legs swinging against the cupboard doors. He was still yapping on and Eric was hanging off his every word, laughing and commenting at the right times. They worked because Dele loved to talk and Eric loved Dele and together they were a match made in heaven. 

Eric brought over a spoon with royal icing on it after a while and before Dele knew what was happening Eric wiped it on his nose, laughing freely at the shock on Dele’s face. Before Dele could counter attack, Eric stepped between his legs and kissed the icing away, and oh - okay. Okay. 

It was something they did sometimes, without ever discussing it or naming it or thinking about it too much. Sometimes they’d kiss and touch and hold each other, but it was no big deal; simply a natural progression of their friendship. Just something they did. Just an Eric and Dele thing they did. 

Dele licked the icing from Eric’s lips and they kissed until the oven timer went off. When Eric pulled away to tend the cookies Dele had a heat in his chest that you get after a shot of whiskey or a mouthful of cough medicine, and he folded his hands in his lap quietly, content. 

“Keep telling me about Christmas 2012,” Eric said as he moved the new cookies to the cooling rack. “I want to know if you ever got that skateboard.” 

So Dele did, his voice like peppermint liqueur; thick and indulgent and dripping with Christmas. Eric iced the second batch of cookies by himself and when they were done he loaded the dishwasher, Dele chattering all the while. 

“What do you want to do now?” Eric asked when he was done, removing his apron. “Anything you’re in the mood for?” 

“Read to me?” Dele asked, and Eric nodded. 

“Course. Let’s go lie down.” 

Eric sat down and Dele lay beside him, his head in Eric’s lap. Eric slid a hand into Dele’s hair and Dele sighed; firmly in his happy place. The Christmas tree was twinkling and the dogs were lying together happily in front of Eric’s fire, which was fake but still gave off the intended illusion. Eric started reading and Dele felt goosebumps break up and down his skin. It didn’t matter what Eric was reading - Dele wasn’t paying attention, but he thought he heard the name Scrooge a few times - because this was it. He finally felt festive, felt warm, cosy, and loved. He closed his eyes and let himself drift in and out like the tide at the pulls of Eric’s voice, the steady rhythm of his fingers on the back of Dele’s neck. Dele wasn’t sure how long they lay there, but he was sad when Eric started bringing him round, patting him on the shoulder and shuffling his legs. 

“Del?” Eric said gently. “Del boy?” 

Dele hummed and slowly pushed himself up, waiting for his brain to come back online. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the edge of Eric’s mouth, then one to his neck, just over the pulse point. Eric’s skin smelled so clean and musky and soft that Dele had to press another kiss there, and another, and another. 

“That’s nice,” Eric breathed, tilting his head back. “That feels really nice. But Dele? Can I ask you a favour?” 

Dele made a noise that let Eric know he was listening, but he didn’t stop his assault on Eric’s neck. 

“I just read to you and stuff for quite a while, so - would you wrap my presents for me? You know I’m shit at it.” 

Dele stopped mid kiss and pulled back, looking at Eric flatly. Eric just looked back and then burst out laughing, his eyes crinkling. “I’m joking, fuck. I knew you’d think I’d ask that.” 

Dele pounced on him, bowling him over, tickling at his ribs and kissing at his chest and face. 

“You just narrowly avoided death, Dier,” he growled, and they were off, wrapped once again in their own little world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 23\. Trent and Hendo and some sexually charged baking (bad organisation on my part that today was that too. Oopsies)


	23. 23. Trent Alexander-Arnold & Jordan Henderson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s not strictly a Christmas song, but they play it at the end of The Holiday and I love it so - today is You Send Me by Aretha Franklin 
> 
> Ps. Happy Christmas Eve eve!

Trent hadn’t expected to spend his Saturday night decorating gingerbread men, but here he was. 

Dominic had invited Trent round earlier that day, and Trent fully expected to go over and have drinks before going out clubbing somewhere. He’d turned up dressed to the nines, doused in his most expensive aftershave, wearing brand new shoes. Dominic looked him over in the doorway and grimaced. 

“We’re just having a quiet one,” he explained, blinking rapidly. “I made us cookies to decorate.” 

Trent’s face fell. “Oh. Okay?” 

Dominic held open the door and Trent came in, wiping his shoes on the mat. 

“Yeah. My mum and step dad are out at dinner. I said I’d stay in and watch the dogs.” 

“The dogs?” Trent scoffed, removing his coat. “Why do you need to watch the dogs?” 

Dominic rolled his eyes. “You know what my mum’s like. She babies them. Drives me and my step dad mad.” 

“How old’s he again, her boyfriend? Toy boy, isn’t he?” 

Dominic shoved Trent’s shoulder. “He’s 28. He’s only twelve years younger than her, hardly a toy boy.” 

“Only twelve? Fuck sake, Dom,” Trent scoffed. “Proper cougar your mum. Give her my number if it doesn’t work out.” 

“Shut the fuck up. C’mon, the gingerbread are ready to ice. But, Trent - if you make any Shrek references, you’re fucking out.” 

Trent held up his hands innocently. “Course not.” 

Dominic turned and led the way to the kitchen, and Trent whispered “not the gumdrops!” Under his breath, but either Dominic didn’t hear or he chose to ignore it. 

— 

It was actually kind of fun, Trent had to admit. They had a couple of beers whilst they worked and they just fucked about, decorating the ginger bread and licking at the icing, nibbling jelly tots and talking shit about different girls in the town that they’d try to get with on New Year’s Eve. 

Three Bud Lights in Dominic thought it would be a good idea to start an icing fight. Trent was never one to back down in light of a challenge but he maybe took it too far - fifteen minutes later and Trent, Dominic and 3/4 of the kitchen was covered in icing, wet and dripping all over the fixtures. They were laughing and panting hard, frozen in a stalemate as there was no icing left to throw. Trent looked around slowly, so as not to spook Dominic, and his eyes settled on a packet of eggs. 

“No - “ Dominic hissed. Trent flicked open the lid of the eggs. “No!” 

Just then, they heard the sound of keys in the door. Trent dropped the egg and Dominic cursed, knowing he was in for a bollocking. 

“Dom! We’re back!” His mum called into the house. “It’s just us, sweetheart.” 

Neither of the boys bothered moving - there was nothing they could do at this point. They listened as the sound of Dominic’s mum’s heels clacked up the hallway, towards the kitchen. She came into view with a warm smile, beaming at Trent. 

“Trent, darling, how are - “ She froze in the doorway, taking in the state of the kitchen. “Oh my god. DOMINIC SOLANKE!” 

“I’m sorry!” He squeaked, pointing at Trent. “It was his idea!” 

Trent shot daggers at Dominic, but he didn’t need to defend himself - Dominic’s mum didn’t believe it for a second. “How dare you blame this on someone else. How old are you, you little twat?! Two years old?!” She jabbed a finger at him. “Get upstairs and get showered, then get down here and make this kitchen sparkle. I mean it, I better not see a lick of icing anywhere. ANYWHERE.” 

“Sorry, mum,” Dominic mumbled. 

“Sorry, Mrs Solanke,” Trent chimed in. She looked at him disapprovingly. 

“You can shower after Dom. Really, Trent, I expect better of you. What would your mother say?” She glared them up and down again and then turned and marched out. 

Trent looked at Dom. “Nice one, you fucking grass.” 

“Piss off. Panicked, didn’t I? Sponges are under the sink. I’ll not be long.” He left, going off to shower, Trent presumed. 

Trent sighed and looked around at the destroyed kitchen, unsure where to start. He bent down to the sink and started rifling around for cleaning products when he heard a voice. 

“I feel like there’s more frosting on you than on the gingerbread.” 

Trent jumped, not expecting that, and smacked his head off the edge of the cupboard. He groaned and brought a hand to his head, pain blooming over his skull. He turned around, stood up slowly and saw him, leaning in the doorframe with his hands in his pockets and a half smirk on his face. Mrs Solanke’s boyfriend was fit, was the thing - unbelievably fit, standing there in a fitted polo that made his arms look like tree trunks, one blue vein down the centre of his bicep. Trent tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. 

“Hi, Mr Henderson,” he said. 

Jordan pushed off from the doorway, approaching Trent slowly, hands still in his pockets. Trent was glued to the spot. Jordan walked around him once, eyeing him up and down, and Trent bit his tongue painfully to keep himself from popping a boner. 

“Definitely more frosting on you. Are you a Christmas treat?” He came to a stop in front of Trent and removed a hand from his pocket. Trent held his breath as Jordan wiped a bit of frosting off his cheek and then popped the finger into his mouth, licking the sugary substance obscenely, eyes never leaving Trent’s. “Seems to me that you’ve been really naughty this year, lad.” Jordan reached out with the same finger and wiped some icing from Trent’s neck. He held the finger in front of Trent’s mouth. “You tried it yet?” 

Trent shook his head ever so slightly and parted his lips, heart jack hammering in his chest. Jordan put the finger against Trent’s lips, then into his mouth. Trent sucked it - how could he not - and he was hard then, a very clear hard line in his tight chinos. Fuck it all. Jordan withdrew his finger and then put his hand back in his pocket. He looked down at Trent’s boner and raised an eyebrow. Trent squeezed his eyes closed and willed the earth to swallow him up. 

“Is that a baseball bat in your pocket or are you happy to see me?” 

Trent opened his eyes and looked up at Jordan, at his intense gaze and the slick of his hair. He had no idea what was happening; if he was dreaming. He forgot that this was his best mate’s mum’s boyfriend, that he wasn’t supposed to be into boys, that anyone could walk in at any minute. He gasped at Jordan dumbly, and Jordan let out a breathy laugh that definitely caused Trent to go from hard to ultra hard. 

“What’s wrong, Trent? Cat got your tongue?” 

“No. No, Mr Henderson.” 

“You don’t have to call us that. I’m not that much older than you are.” 

“Sorry.” 

“You don’t have to, but I do like it. It’s hot.” 

“Okay. Mr Henderson.” 

They heard feet on the stairs. Trent startled but Jordan didn’t flinch, still the picture of calm togetherness. 

“Better clean this mess up, Trent, eh?” Jordan flicked two fingers underneath Trent’s chin and then turned, going off to be with his girlfriend or do whatever it was he did. 

Trent could hardly breathe. He turned to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, gasping like he’d just narrowly avoided drowning. 

— 

The boys cleaned up the kitchen slowly and quietly. Trent refused a shower, saying he’d have one at home, but he did wipe off with a couple of wet wipes. He couldn’t stop thinking about his exchange with Jordan, replaying their conversation over and over again. Jordan had definitely stuck his finger in Trent’s mouth - that was flirting, wasn’t it? That was definitely flirting. It had to have been. 

They finished the kitchen just after twelve. 

“I’ll phone a taxi,” Trent told Dominic, pulling out his phone. 

“Nah, Jordan’ll drive you. He’s not been drinking.” 

Trent’s skin tingled. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“Nah, it’s fine. Hendo?” Dominic shouted, disappearing from the kitchen. “Jordan?” 

Trent took a deep breath and followed him into the living room, where Jordan and Dominic’s mum were cuddled on the couch, watching Graham Norton. 

“Can you drive Trent home, Jordan? He’s not far away.” 

“Course, mate.” Jordan looked at Trent. “Ready now?” 

Trent nodded. “Yeah. Ready now. Thank you - and I’m sorry again, Mrs Solanke. About the mess.” 

“Don’t worry about it, love,” she said. “Have a merry Christmas when it comes, alright? Say hi to your family for me.” 

“I will. Catch you later, Dom.” 

Dominic was already sat down in the arm chair, scrolling on his phone. “See you bud.” 

Jordan got up and smoothed down his trousers. “Right then, let’s get you home.” 

They went outside together. Jordan unlocked the car and they slid into their seats. It was a big car, a Range Rover, and it exuded power in the same way its owner did. Trent wanted to ask what Jordan did to afford a car like this, but he didn’t want to pry. 

The engine purred to life and they pulled off into the night. The roads were deserted. It was awkwardly quiet in the car, and Trent wracked his brains desperately for something to say. He couldn’t take his eyes off Jordan’s big hand on the wheel, the way his arm was extended in a display of firm strength, all muscly and hairy and pure sexiness. Before he could stop himself he was becoming hard again, and he had to shuffle in the seat to get comfortable, praying it wasn’t obvious - 

“Do you often pop boners like this?” Henderson asked, eyes on the road. “You a nymphomaniac?” 

Trent’s face flamed. “Stop teasing me,” he said quietly. Jordan’s eyes flicked to him and then back to the road. 

“What was that?” 

“Stop teasing me,” Trent said again, louder. “I don’t know why it’s happening. Must need to get laid or summat.” 

Jordan nodded to show he understood. They were silent again, but it was charged silence. Trent dug his fingers into his thighs. 

“Feel free to have a wank, if that’ll help. I don’t care.” 

Trent looked at Jordan with wide eyes. “What?” 

“Just saying. I don’t care if you get it out now. Still fifteen minutes yet till you’re home, don’t want you to be uncomfy the whole time.” 

Trent didn’t know if Jordan was taking the piss, couldn’t tell. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, just stared at Jordan’s face for a clue. Jordan looked at him then, and it was clear to Trent that he wasn’t kidding. Trent unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers and put a hand down his pants and sighed at the touch. He was so hard it was painful, didn’t think he’d ever been so turned on in his life. 

“You can get it out,” Jordan repeated, and his voice was huskier. 

Trent did as he was told, not even thinking about the fact that other cars could see in if they came up beside any at a red light. Trent started wanking himself off and Jordan stared stoically ahead, but his calm exterior was slipping - Trent could see that his breathing was shallower, saw the muscles jumping in his arm. Trent swallowed. It was now or never. 

“Can you help me out, Mr Henderson?” 

Jordan bit his lip and glanced at Trent. “What do you want?” 

“You could touch it,” Trent said. He wanted to sound confident but he knew he sounded ridiculous. 

Jordan sucked at his teeth and then, miracle of miracles, he switched hands on the wheel and brought his left down onto Trent’s cock. Trent felt every muscle in his body contract, a growl coming from his chest. 

“Like this?” Jordan asked. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. Sir.” 

Trent saw Jordan’s eyes flicker at that, and it made his own cock jump. Jordan tugged at Trent, doing his best given it was his left hand, and steadfastly kept his eyes on the road. Trent was sliding around sluttily in the seat, all breathy and wriggly and turned on. 

“You’re really making me want to pull this car over,” Jordan said in a low voice. 

“Do it,” Trent said. “Do it.” 

“They’ll wonder where we are. I’ll not get home for hours. There’s so much I want to do to you.” 

Trent moaned, and felt the car lurch as Jordan’s feet stuttered on the pedal at the sound of it. “Fuck, Mr Henderson. Jesus.” 

Jordan kept wanking him off. Trent had never enjoyed a hand job so much in his life. He was overwhelmed with the desire to blow Jordan whilst he drove, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t give up the hand on his cock. 

“We’re nearly at yours, Trent. Do you think you could come soon?” 

Trent nodded, bit his lip. “Yeah. If you just - your thumb, in the head - yeah, oh god. Oh god yeah. I’m gonna come, sir. I’m going to come.” 

“Shit,” Jordan moaned. Trent closed his eyes and concentrated hard on the heat in his belly. He felt his stomach contract and the familiar tingle in his thighs and then just like that he was coming, all over himself and Jordan’s hand and a bit on the seat. Jordan brought his come covered hand up to Trent’s mouth. “Clean this off for me, good lad.” 

Trent did it, licked at his own come filthily, desperately. He could see that Jordan was hard and he put a hand over and on top of Jordan’s erection, squeezing at it. Jordan’s eyelids flickered but he moved Trent’s hand away, disappointing them both. 

“Not right now,” he said. “Not now. Like I said, I won’t be able to control myself. We both need to get home.” 

Trent nodded, accepted it. He tucked himself back into his trousers as the car pulled into his street, ran a hand over his hair. 

“Thanks, Mr Henderson,” he said, unclipping his seatbelt. “Sorry about the mess.” 

Jordan smirked. “Don’t worry about it. Go on, get inside.” Trent opened the door and as he turned to close it, Jordan called out again. “Trent?” 

“Sir?” 

“Behave yourself.” 

Trent closed the door and Jordan was off, driving back down the dark street. Trent watched until the car disappeared, and then he shook his head in disbelief. 

He was going to be spending a lot more time at the Solanke residence, he knew. He grinned as he unlocked his front door. Bring on 2019.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 24\. John Stones in some Mrs Clause lingerie


	24. 24. John Stones and Jordan Pickford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Santa Baby by Kylie Minogue OBV. The best of the Christmas songs. The sexiest song of all time. You have it on my good authority that this song is the epitome of human creation.

Jordan meant it when he told John he was going to have revenge for the Santa hat. 

He was out Christmas shopping on his own, earphones in and head down, trying as hard as he could to avoid the eyes of eager shop assistants when he spotted it. 

It was hanging on a black velvet hanger delicately, and it seemed to be calling to him. Jordan approached it carefully, like it was a squirrel or a wild bird he didn’t want to startle. He took his EarPods out and pushed them into his pocket, needing silence, needing to concentrate. It was perfect. 

He ran his fingers over it. It was wispy and light, barely there. It was made for John Stones. Jordan picked up a medium and held it against himself, checking - it was long enough, built for a tall woman. He was sure it would fit. With his heart thumping Jordan brought it to the register and set it down gently, carefully. 

The assistant picked it up and scanned it, handling it professionally; clinically. Jordan wanted the guy’s hands off it - he didn’t want anyone else to touch it. Ever. He put his card into the chip reader when the assistant voiced the price and waited as it was placed into a big white box, covered with tissue paper and tied with a red ribbon. 

“Thanks, bud.” Jordan said, taking the box after it was placed into a bag. 

“She’ll look amazing,” the assistant winked, and Jordan just smirked. 

“Yeah. Happy holidays.” 

— 

They were going for a formal Christmas Eve drinks. The whole England National Team were invited; along with friends and family. Jordan and John were going together, naturally - Jordan was going to drive. 

John was in the bathroom shaving when Jordan decided it was the right time. He’d stashed it in the back of his closet and he took it out now, rubbing his thumb over the silk ribbon keeping the box closed. He took a deep breath and carried it to John, sitting down on the edge of the bath. John didn’t look away from the bathroom mirror. He was leaning over the sink in his boxers, shaving the underside of his neck carefully. Jordan cleared his throat. 

“John?” 

John looked at him in the mirror. He spotted the box and turned around, looking at Jordan in real life. “What’s that?” 

“Come and open it,” Jordan said, holding it out. 

“Jord?” 

“Just open it.” 

John set the razor down on the sink and came over, looking intrigued. He took the white box from Jordan’s hands and set it down on the tiled floor, pulling at the edge of the ribbon. They were so quiet they could hear the whisper of the material as it came undone, falling onto the floor and allowing John to lift the lid of the box. John opened it up and gasped. 

Inside was a scarlet red Christmas corset. It was made with alternating silk and lace panels and trimmed with white fluff. It had silk straps and a pair of suspenders hanging from its hem, ready to be clipped to some stockings. Underneath the corset was a pair of lacy red underwear and the softest, most luxurious lace trimmed stockings John had ever seen. He ran his fingers over it all in wonder, sure that he’d never seen anything so unbelievably sexy in his life. 

“It’s for you,” Jordan said, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs. “I want you to wear it tonight, under your suit. I want us to be the only ones who know about it.” 

John’s words were stuck in his throat. He blinked at Jordan and then down at the lingerie. Jordan frowned. “Are you okay?” 

John nodded once, twice. He cleared his throat. “I’m - yeah. I’m great. I’m really great. This is... fuck.” 

“I know. I know, John.” 

Jordan got up and put out a hand for John to take. John let himself be pulled up, still holding the corset. Jordan pressed a kiss to his lips, a reassuring kiss, a kiss that said - I’m here with you. I want to do this with you. I love you. Jordan put his thumbs in the waistband of John’s boxers and tugged them down. He knelt down to remove them fully, John lifting each foot dutifully to allow himself to be undressed. 

Whilst he was down there Jordan felt into the box for the underwear. He brought them to John, who lifted his feet again - right, left - and allowed Jordan to tug them slowly up his legs, past his shins, over his knees, up the tattoos on his thighs. Jordan paused towards the end and leaned forward to press a kiss to John’s fast hardening cock, which made John visibly shudder. Then Jordan pulled the pants all the way up, fitting snugly on John’s hips, his penis pressed up to the left, the scarlet lace striking against his pale skin. Jordan placed a hand on John’s arse, feeling out the contrast of smooth skin and course underwear. He shivered. 

“Good,” he said, kissing John’s stomach just below his belly button. “Good.” 

He stayed down and this time pulled out the stockings. Jordan slid them up John’s legs one after the other, his fingers chasing the whisper of silk as they encased him. Jordan noted the contrast between the sharp edges of John’s knees and the thick muscle that jutted out just above them; noted the defined curve of his calves wrapped up in fuck-me-red material. The lace at the top of the stockings looked obscene around John’s thighs, clinging to his skin perfectly. 

Jordan got to his feet again and looked at John. He was flushing down his chest and his cheeks were pink, his eyes wide, pupils so dark Jordan could barely make out the blue of his iris. He took the corset out of John’s hands and motioned for him to raise his arms. Jordan slid the corset down over his head and John put his arms through the straps. It was tight but it fit, hugging him in at the waist, flat against the bones of his chest. It fell just above his underwear, leaving a strip of skin between the materials. Jordan took the clips of the suspenders and fastened them to the suspenders front and back. 

He stepped back then and marvelled in awe. John was fully hard and he looked breathtakingly beautiful. Jordan let out a low whistle. 

“Jesus christ, Stonesy. You were born to wear this.” John’s flush deepened. “Come on. See it in the full length mirror.” 

Jordan led John by the hand into the bedroom to stand in front of the big mirror. John looked at himself for the longest time, turning this way and that, running his hands over himself. 

“Do you like it?” Jordan asked eventually, standing back with his arms crossed. “Do you want to wear it for me tonight?” 

John nodded, eyes still on himself. “Yeah. I think I love it,” he exhaled. “It’s beautiful.” 

Jordan came up behind him and put his hands on John’s hips, kissing the back of his neck. He hooked his chin over John’s shoulder and joined him in looking at the lingerie in the mirror. 

“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly. “You’re so beautiful.” 

They kissed for a while, John needy and tactile, and Jordan had to push him away and tell him to go and finish shaving, to put his suit on. Jordan had to take a minute to get himself together and steady his own hands when John left the room. He had no idea how they were going to make it out the door, let alone last the whole night surrounded by other people. He gave himself a shake and started to get dressed, knowing they were already running a little bit late. 

— 

In his suit, no one would be able to tell John was wearing sexy lingerie. Jordan looked at John as he tied his tie and straightened his cufflinks and could hardly believe for a second that it was under there. John had styled his hair and sprayed expensive cologne and Jordan wished he could’ve just had him at home, soft and smelling of skin, but they had things to do and people to see. He pressed his fingers to John’s stomach over his shirt and he could feel the faint lines of the corset, the only evidence John was still wearing it. That, and the ever so slight tint to John’s cheeks and the blow of his pupils. Jordan grinned at him. 

“Let’s get going, shall we?” 

They left in Jordan’s car, zipping up the motorway as fast as the speed limit would allow. John was subdued in his seat, clearly thinking intently about what he was wearing. Jordan squeezed his thigh and then left his hand there on his leg proprietarily. When they arrived at the venue Jordan turned the radio down. 

“We’re going to be in here, around all these important people, and no one but the two of us know what’s going on under your suit. Do you know how hot that is, John? Do you know how sexy this is?” 

“I’m so turned on,” John said in reply, and Jordan squeezed his thigh again. 

“I know you are. So am I. But you have to wait, right? Have to be patient. We have to hang around here for a decent amount of time and then I’m going to get you home and I’m going to fucking demolish you.” 

“Bloody hell.” 

“Yeah. Be careful, right? Don’t give it away.” 

“Won’t.” 

“Good. I love you, John.” 

Jordan parked up and they disembarked from the car. They walked side by side towards the function suite, the picture of masculinity in their dark suits and ridiculously expensive Italian leather shoes, hair styled perfectly, ties tied with military precision. Just before they got to the main doors Jordan reached out and smacked John on the arse and then they were in - they were officially in public. 

They split up when they were inside, John being instantly collared by Kyle and Eric and Jordan drifting off to say hello to Hendo and Tripps. Kyle took one look at John and rolled his eyes, saying “I don’t want to know,” but no one else could tell anything was different. John was charming and funny and smart, laughing with Dele about how best to prepare Brussels sprouts (by chucking them in the bin) and listening to Kyle relay what he’d bought the kids for Christmas. 

Jordan was in conversations of his own but he kept John in his periphery, casting glances at him every now and then. He was surprised to note that John was thriving rather than shutting down, becoming almost manic rather than spacey. He wasn’t sure which one was worse and would warrant the quickest removal so he kept close tabs, never allowing John to be undetectable in the vast room. 

Jordan was content to leave John to his own devices until he spotted him talking into Ross Barkley’s ear, Ross’s hand sitting on the small of John’s back over his suit jacket. Jordan straightened up and frowned, instantly irritated. It was one thing to have others being handsy with John in front of him and entirely another to have them be handsy with him when he was dressed in fucking filthy lingerie that Jordan had put him in himself. 

The knowledge of what he was wearing was making John slutty, Jordan could see that. He wanted to go and stand beside him like a royal bodyguard, wanted to dare anyone to put a hand on him again. He was about to go and do exactly that when Gareth collared him, introducing him to some executive from Setanta sports. His gaze flickered over John and Ross one last time and then he had to be professional, flashing a smile for this man who he’d never remember the name of. 

When the guy finally stopped yapping about the perils of Brexit on premier league transfers Jordan excused himself and marched over to where Ross was leaning into John’s space with a hand on his upper arm. Ruben and Kyle were standing close and when they saw Jordan they both took a step back, holding up their hands as if to say - we’re innocent, we haven’t touched him. Jordan came to John’s side and put an arm around his waist, glaring at Ross. John looked at Jordan and smiled delightedly, leaning into him. 

“Pickford!” He exclaimed. “Nice of you to join us.” 

“How’s it going?” He asked, kissing John on the temple. It was risky behaviour - people knew they were a thing, sure, but it was a case of don’t ask don’t tell - but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t not do it. 

“Good. Going good. Ross was just telling us about why he doesn’t celebrate Christmas.” 

“Oh?” Jordan looked from John to Ross like he was interested, and Ross took it as a queue to explain but Jordan cut him off. “I’m sure it’s a great story, but could you do us a favour, Ross? Please don’t ever put your hands on John, unless he specifically asks you to, again. Alright?” 

No one moved. Ross looked a bit embarrassed but mostly just shocked, taken a-back. “Right. Okay. Sorry,” he murmured, looking down at his feet. “Didn’t mean to cause any offence.” 

Jordan squeezed John’s arm and took off again, feeling electric, full of testosterone and adrenalin. He went to join in a conversation with Harry Kane and checked his watch, calculating the earliest possible time he could get John out of here and back home. 

— 

Overall - to say John was being slutty was a huge understatement. 

He’d had a few glasses of champagne, sure, but he was like his normal self on speed - he was prancing around lithely, fluttering his lashes at people and laughing like he thought he was Marilyn Monroe. Jordan watched him drape himself over Kyle’s side and do everything but climb up Eric’s body and wrap his legs round his waist. It was all for Jordan’s benefit, he knew, and it was driving him nuts knowing that John was dressed how he was under his suit. The lace must’ve been agony against his cock; the corset a constant pressure around his ribs. 

Jordan saw him go to the bathroom with Kyle at one point and he hoped John would have the sense to remember not to use the urinals. Jordan just waited, stayed away and watched from afar, waiting for John to come to him. When he did that would be the time - time to take John home. Jordan could be patient. 

The time came, to no one’s surprise, when Jordan was approached by the son of a media Barron. He was good looking, probably straight - probably not so straight, actually, the way he was leaning in and asking with sparkling eyes about Russia and Everton and Sunderland. Jordan smiled and answered him politely, counting down in his head. He couldn’t see the rest of the room but he knew... give it a couple of seconds - any moment, aaaany minute... 

John came and stood so close to Jordan he nearly knocked the water from Jordan’s hand. He put his hand on Jordan’s hip and looked at the guy - Jordan hadn’t caught his name - from under his eyelashes, trying to appear menacing but simply looking like a puppy barking at a strange pile of laundry. 

“Can I have a word?” He asked Jordan. 

Jordan looked apologetically at the guy. “Excuse me. Sorry,” he said, turning away with John and walking off to a quiet corner. “Jealous?” 

“Shut up. Can we go now? I’m ready to go,” John pleaded, standing so close Jordan had to take a step back and hold out a hand to keep him there. 

“You’re going to get us caught,” he said, but he was smiling. “Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go.” 

They left without saying goodbye to anyone, because that would only waste time and neither of them were interested in that. John wanted to finger himself in the car home, and although Jordan admired him for it, he said no. “Just wait, alright? Wait till we’re back.” 

John obviously took that as a green light to whine the whole way; to rock up against the underwear as much as he could whilst sat down. Jordan normally wouldn’t allow it but he was feeling festive so he let John behave like a spoiled brat on this occasion. John kept glancing at the speedometer and moaning that Jordan was driving slow on purpose, that he was trying upset John for no reason. Jordan just looked at him disapprovingly, not even willing to grace such ridiculous accusations with a response. 

They pulled up to the house not a moment too soon. Jordan turned off the car and reached over to pull John into a kiss, a slow and deliberate one. 

“Stop stalling,” John whined onto Jordan’s lips, and he had to laugh. 

“Alright. Let’s get you inside.” 

They kissed in the hallway for a while, John against the wall, Jordan with his thigh slotted between John’s legs. John pressed against it, ground down. 

“I should ride your thighs one time,” John said. 

“Could do. But I’m not riding yours. No way am I sitting on Norman Rimmington’s face.” 

“Can I take this suit off now?” John said in response. 

Jordan nodded and stepped back, tugging at John’s tie. “Yeah. Off. Off off off.” 

“Go and sit down,” John said, pulling his tie out of Jordan’s hands. “Sit down and wait for me on the couch.” 

Jordan went, adjusting his boner in his dress trousers as he sat, legs spread wide. He waited patiently and then, over the sound system, the unmistakeable opening notes of Santa Baby. Jordan smiled wide as John came in, still in his suit, wiggling his hips. 

“Oh my god,” Jordan laughed. “Yes!” 

John came to stand in front of Jordan, shimmying out of his jacket and throwing it away somewhere behind him. He undid his tie and threw it onto Jordan’s lap. Jordan watched with his lip between his teeth as John undid each button on his shirt, revealing once again the scarlet of his lingerie. When his shirt was off John was standing in his trousers and the corset and the contrast between the two items of clothing was stunning. Jordan made grabby hands and John came over and straddled him, grinding his hips down like some kind of btec Magic Mike. 

Jordan tried to put his hands on John but he was slapped away, much to his eternal agony. John was in charge here, Jordan realised. He let his hands fall down to the side and let himself enjoy the show. John got up and again and disposed of the trousers. Jordan’s mouth ran dry at the sight of the stockings, the suspenders taught over the curve of John’s arse. John was hard, fully hard, and he made a show of pressing a hand over himself, eyes locked on Jordan’s. 

Jordan cleared his throat. “I thought you were a nice boy, John Stones. All those years playing footie together, I thought you were a nice lad.” 

John scoffed. “Nothing nice about me. Now suck me off.” 

Jordan didn’t hesitate. He came to the edge of the sofa and pulled John in by the back of his thighs, running his lips and nose along the length of him in the underwear. Jordan used a finger to free John’s dick and he started blowing him. He put his free hand up in the air and wiggled his fingers to encourage John to put them in his mouth. He did it, got them nice and wet, and Jordan brought them underneath the lace of his undies and began to push one inside. 

John rocked forward and back in tandem, one hand on Jordan’s head, the other rubbing up and down the silk over his ribs. He was being extra vocal tonight, reacting loudly to every lick of Jordan’s tongue, every press of the pad of his finger. Jordan pulled back after a while and stood up, loosening his own tie. He removed his suit jacket and kissed John, then pointed to the white carpet. 

“Lie down,” he whispered in his ear, kissing the shell of it. “Want to lay you out and look at you.” 

John lay down on his back, his underwear standing out beautifully against the white fluffy rug. Jordan knelt down and unclipped the suspenders so that he could remove the lacy pants. John lifted his hips to allow Jordan to get them down, and it did crazy things to Jordan, seeing John like this; pulling a pair of girls pants off his incredibly long legs. Jordan mouthed at John’s legs from his ankle to the crease of his thigh and fastened the suspenders again. 

He started fingering him once more, gazing down at his form in wonder. He took in the dark curls on his head and the tendons in his neck, the jut of his collar bones. Jordan took his free hand and brushed the back of his fingers over the silky red straps hooked over John’s shoulders. “Can’t believe I’m seeing this,” Jordan muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Can’t believe I’ve got you here like this. Lying on my living room floor with your legs spread. Jesus. Fucking. Christ.” 

John whimpered and his cock shuddered on his abdomen, leaking a little. Jordan fingered him with renewed vigour, undoing his belt and button with his spare hand. He worked at John and tugged at himself simultaneously and then he was covering John’s body with his own, nudging the head of his cock up against John’s hole and, with a gentle shove, sliding into his body. He bottomed out and pressed his face into John’s neck, his hand running up and down John’s stocking’d leg. 

“You feel so good. Why do you feel so good?” 

“‘M a human Rolls Royce, aren’t I,” John huffed out. 

Jordan tried to laugh but it sounded like a moany sigh. “I want to stay like this forever. I want to be inside you forever.” 

“Make me come, Pickford,” John said, patting Jordan on the arse. “Let’s bring this home.” 

Jordan would never deny John what he wanted. He started to move, slow at first, taking his time. It was like trying not to gasp wildly after being suffocated; completely unnatural and requiring incredible restraint. Jordan never wanted this moment to end - he didn’t want either of them to come. He’d fuck John all night if he could, not even stopping when Santa arrived down the chimney with their presents. When he didn’t think either of them could take it anymore Jordan made it rhythmic, deep, unforgiving. He bent John’s left leg back and had him yelping on every stroke, orgasm imminent.

“Touch yourself,” Jordan commanded, and John did, barely even needing to do more than cover his cock with his hand before he was coming beautifully, back arching off the floor, clenching down on Jordan’s own cock and causing him to come himself, emptying into John’s body with a choked off moan against his skin. 

He pulled out and flopped down beside John, chasing his breath. They were both panting, and it took them a while to come back down to Earth. John spoke first, stretching his arms above his head. 

“Jord?” 

“John?” 

“Go and make me a cup of tea, will you.” 

Jordan snorted. “What did your last slave die of?” 

“He didn’t die, he’s lying beside me. Go on, be a love.” 

“Fuck off, Christina Aguilera.” 

John looked at him. “Shut up. You’re taking the piss after you just salivated over me like a fucking dog eating a steak?” 

Jordan laughed, and then brought his watch to his face. It was after midnight. 

“It’s Christmas, Stonesy.” 

“Oh. Merry Christmas, Jordan. I love you.” 

Jordan sat up and kissed John on the forehead. “I love you too. Merry Christmas, my baby.” 

John pulled Jordan down by the neck for a proper kiss. That was it, then. They were off again. It didn’t matter in the end - they were in love, and it was Christmas. They had all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow’s our last day, guys - it’s truly been so amazing. Day 25 is Christmas Day with the England NT! See you all then xx


	25. 25. England NT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Auld Lang Syne - Evie Clare

It was the night before Christmas, and all the through the house, not a creature was stirring - not even a mouse. 

I’m kidding, of course. It was the night before Christmas and mayhem was erupting in the bowels of the stately home the England NT were having Christmas in this year. 

Gareth had set bed time at a respectable 10:30pm, which they’d all at least pretended to adhere to. The gaffer went down the hall flicking off lights and checking everyone was tucked up, all in their cosiest Christmas Eve jammies and with their teeth brushed. 

Earlier in the night they all agreed on letting Harry Winks set out the mince pies and milk for Santa. Gareth turned his back for a second and when he turned back around Harry was eating Rudolph’s carrots. Gareth bustled over to him and took the carrots away, reminding him they were for the reindeers. 

Then it was up to bed, a thunderous stampede of boys on the stairs of the old house. Dele started a fight because Harry Kane was in the bed next to Eric and Dele wanted that bed, but Harry insisted it be his as it was closest to the door in case of emergency. Dele stood at the foot of the bed with a scowl and his hands on his hips and yanked the covers off Harry and threw them on the floor, and Harry started wailing Gareth’s name, red in the face and angry. Eric was lying back in bed laughing the whole time, and Gareth came in and jabbed a finger at him, telling him to quit laughing and move to the other side of the room so Dele could be in the bed beside him. 

“I dunno why they’re causing such a fuss,” Jesse grumbled from his bed. “They’ll end up in the same one anyway.” 

“Some of us like to be more subtle,” Dele shot back at him on his way to the other side of the room. 

Jesse stuck his tongue out and settled in closer to Marcus, who was only managing to stay on his little slice of mattress by the skin of his teeth. Gareth picked up the duvet and laid it back over Harry, tucking it up around his ears. The rest of them lay down quietly, chorusing their goodnights. 

Gareth switched off the lights and retreated to his own bedroom. He poured himself a glass of red wine and sighed, stretching out in bed and picking up his copy of Bear Grylls’ new book. 

He got a good twenty minutes of peace before he heard the first thump. Gareth paused, listening. It was quiet so he resumed reading, taking a sip of the oaky wine. Then again, there - another thump, louder this time. He sat his book down on the bedsheets and listened, ears straining, and then - 

“Gareth!” Chilwell kicked open the bedroom door. “John and Kyle are running around wiping my hair gel on each other!” 

Gareth put his head in his hands and sighed, muttering “They’re doing you a favour, mate.” 

“What?!” 

“They’re a pair of clowns, I said. C’mon. Back to your room.” Gareth swung his legs out of bed and walked after Ben. The closer down the corridor he got the more he could hear the hilarity, the sound of Kyle’s apostrophe-like voice screeching with excitement. Gareth pushed open the door and stood there, hand on his hip, watching Kyle and John and Dele roughhouse on the floor, Ruben and Trent and Trippier jumping on their beds, Marcus and Jesse rustling around under the covers. Harry Winks was fast asleep, bless him, and the rest of them were watching on in amusement. 

“RIGHT!” Gareth bellowed. Everyone paused. “All of you, into bed! Now! Or there’s no presents in the morning!” They scrambled to their places like rats up a drainpipe. “I don’t want to hear another peep out of this room. Understood?” 

Gareth turned off the overhead light and clicked the door shut again. He waited outside for a moment but it was quiet so he retreated to his own room, flopping down on the bed with an exaggerated sigh. 

It would take two more trips to the boys’ bedroom before they fell asleep for the night - the first time because Harry Maguire nipped Trent after he claimed it should be Hendo on the new fifty pound note; the second time because Winks had a nightmare and was inconsolable. It was past midnight by the time Gareth was able to lie down in the dark and drift off himself, the wine he’d drank serving as a good sleeping aid. 

Jadon shook Gareth awake at four in the morning, hovering over him in the dark and asking if it was time to go downstairs yet, but Gareth sent him back to bed with a quiet hiss of his voice. Other than that, Gareth slept well. He woke up at eight and went off to the bathroom, brushing his teeth and having a quick pee. That done he went to wake the boys, surprised they hadn’t already been at his door by now. 

Gareth opened the bedroom door and looked in on his sleeping boys, angelic looking and utterly peaceful. He didn’t want to wake them, lovely as they were. Still, it was Christmas - he turned on the lights and called out gently, “Good morning, lads!” 

They began to stir - Jordan Pickford jumped straight out of bed, clearly disorientated, and screamed “AM I LATE FOR SCHOOL?!” 

Gareth had to hold in his laughter. “No, Jordan. It’s Christmas. Santa’s been.” 

“SAAAANTA!!!” Kyle Walker bellowed, sitting up straight in bed. “I KNOW HIM!” 

“Elf impersonations later, Kyle,” Gareth admonished, but he was smiling. “C’mon, everyone! Down we go!” 

They thundered down the stairs like a heard of elephants. Kane tripped and fell down the remaining seven steps and Gareth’s whole life flashed before his eyes but he got up at the bottom and brushed himself off, careening into the living room with the rest of the squad. They all gathered around the tree, handing out presents and bickering like brothers, some of them quieter than others - Dele was sat in Eric’s folded legs scowling at everyone - and Gareth watched in the doorway with his heart swelling for a few seconds, the sight of them too much for him. 

He went and fetched some black bags and then sat down and watched as they opened up their presents. Eric got a Ramos Real Madrid shirt and a box of grapes. Dele got an interactive Latin online language course, in the hopes he could finally find out what Leo Fortis means. Pickford got a new pair of keeper gloves that had rave lights in the fingers and Jesse opened up a pair of socks with Marcus’s face all over them. Welbeck got a photo of a girl that no one recognised and he fell quiet when he saw it, getting up and disappearing from the room quickly. 

“Where’s he going?” Hendo said, throwing a thumb in Danny’s direction. 

“Oh. Probably to send anonymous messages to that girl in the picture.” 

“What?” 

“Don’t fucking ask.” 

Hendo himself got a scrapbook made by Adam that had memories from every day they’d known each other - photos and anecdotes and receipts and tickets and such - and he started crying before he could stop himself, running from the room shouting that his hay fever was playing up. 

“Who invited Tracy Beaker?” Jesse snorted, and Adam whacked him over the back of the head. 

When presents were done Gareth took his sack of wrapping paper and started the breakfast. He made them all sausage and bacon sandwiches, Harry Kane helping him cook the meat, Dier on bread buttering duty, Maddison in charge of squeezing ketchup or HP according to preference. Gareth had set Hendo in charge of making the tea but he caught him putting the milk in first so he sacked him and made Ruben do it instead. 

Then they all sat around the table and ate - Eric had to cut the crusts off Winksy’s sandwiches for him, and then Pickford complained he wanted his off too but no one was willing to help - but otherwise it was a peaceful breakfast, relaxing and satisfying. 

Then it was time to shower and straighten up around the house. Gareth was allowed to shower first as he had to prepare the lunch - he did it efficiently, dressing in his waistcoat Christmas jumper, and then got straight into the kitchen. He could hear them all fighting upstairs over the bathroom but he turned the Christmas music up louder and just ignored them. 

When everyone was ready and dressed they were told to get outside and play for a while - it’d burn off their energy and work up their appetites, plus get them out from under Gareth’s feet. They went running outside with their coats on and a football and entertained themselves whilst the Christmas lunch cooked. 

Gareth called them in a couple of hours later. The feast was laid out on the table - turkey and ham, brussels and roast potatoes and parsnips, cranberry sauce and creamy mashed potatoes, pigs in blankets and Yorkshire puddings. They took their seats and held up their glasses as Gareth said grace to the lord and saviour David Beckham and then they tucked in. 

It was a veritable free for all, food flying and dishes passed up and down the table continually, crackers pulled and little paper hats adorned. Jesse, Winks and Dele finished first and started to get fidgety so Gareth told them they were allowed to go and play Fortnite until the others had finished eating, which they jumped up to do with glee. They all chipped in to wash the dishes, insisting Gareth go sit down in the living room and put his feet up after cooking all day. Only three dishes got smashed, so Gareth took it as a win. 

They reconvened at the table to play monopoly. It was under 25s versus over 25s and it ended with Harry Kane crying, Jesse, Eric and Maguire in a 3 man punch up, John going upstairs and packing his bags melodramatically, Dele and Trent arguing about capitalism in board games and Gareth with a splitting headache. 

“Who’s idea was this?” Hendo was shouting, standing on his chair and stabbing a finger at people around the table. “Who’s stupid fucking idea was monopoly?” 

“It was mine,” Adam answered to his left. 

Hendo retracted his pointed finger. “And it was a brilliant idea.” He sat down again, crossing his legs. “Just a shame this lot are fucking hooligans about everything.” 

“Hooligans? Fuck off. You old twats are the reason the game ended like this. You think you’re all better cos you’re older. Between you you couldn’t work out what lmao meant if your life depended on it,” Chilwell snapped. 

Hendo’s face went red with rage and he was about to respond when Gareth stood up and held up his hands for silence. “RIGHT! Enough. That’s enough, all of you. Jesse, go upstairs and apologise for calling John... whatever it was you called him - “ 

“He called him a stupid skinny cunt who couldn’t defend a plastic bag from flying away in the wind,” Winks provided breezily. 

“Yes - thank you, Harry. Just go and apologise, Jesse. Now. The rest of you, get into the living room. We’re going to watch The Muppets Christmas Carol and have hot chocolate, and I don’t want to hear any more arguing. Alright? ALRIGHT?” 

“Yes, Gareth,” they chorused. 

— 

They were sweet when they were cuddled up together under blankets watching the movie, all distracted enough not to cause any trouble. Pickford spilled his hot chocolate but that was the only excitement - otherwise it was the perfect way for them all to wind down, bellies full and hearts warm. They were all lying in a big puppy pile of limbs and Christmas jumpers and Gareth got a lump in his throat watching them, the old sap that he was. 

When the movie was over it was time for bed. Back up the stairs; pyjamas; brushed teeth. Gareth checked they were all tucked in, all had everything they needed, before pausing in the middle of the room, looking around at them all fondly. 

“Guys, I just wanted to say - thank you for a lovely day, but also, thank you for a lovely year. It’s been incredible, lads - the World Cup, the reception at home, all of it. You’ve done nothing but go out there and play football for the love of the game and you’ve all achieved something really, really special with each other, and with the country. I’m so proud of you all for the way you handle yourselves, how you play football, how you love each other - this is a family, not just a team. It’s been an incredible year and it’s only going to get better. The country didn’t just fall in love with football, it fell in love with you individually. It’s fallen in love with Dele’s cheeky grin and Eric’s funny English aggression on the pitch. It’s fallen in love with Maguire’s big head and Kane’s ability to put goals in the net and Jesse’s ridiculous goal celebrations. It’s fallen in love with how normal you are, Pickford - everyone knows someone like you. All of you should be so, so bloody proud. I love you all, alright? I mean that.” He paused to wipe at his eyes, a lump forming in his throat. “Now it’s bed time. I’ll see you all in the morning, okay?” 

They all chimed in their goodnights and words of thanks and agreement and Gareth nodded kindly at them all as he headed for the door, hand on the light switch. He checked them over one last time before turning it off, clicking the door closed gently behind him. 

Gareth got to his own room and collapsed into bed, exhausted. He smiled as he ruminated on his speech - how much he truly loved them all, how grateful he was. He pulled on his own jammies and turned off his light, sighing with happiness at the luxury of being in bed at last. They were quiet, too, which was a blessing - Gareth had never been more relaxed. He was drifting off, thinking that it’d been a Christmas to remember, when - THUMP. He held his breath. Please no please no please no - 

“GAAAREEETH!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys... I cant believe we’re at the end of this. I have absolutely loved every single day of this and am emotional it’s over - I’ve put a lot of blood, sweat and tears into this and you’ve all kept me going with your support and feedback and love. Thank you so much - I hope you had a brilliant December and have a cracking new year. See you in 2019 my angels xxx


End file.
